


The Moment You Let Go

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Character, Canon Queer Character of Color, Dubcon Kissing, Established Relationship, Food, Good Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magical Memory Loss, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Mentioned Chris Argent/Melissa McCall - Freeform, Mentioned Natalie Martin/Noah Stilinski, Mentioned Scott McCall/Malia Tate - Freeform, Minor Kira Yukimura/OC, Minor Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Not Entirely Sheriff-Positive, Protective Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21986548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Stiles has been missing for four months, six days, and eighteen hours when he bangs twice on the Mahealanis' back door, says, "Oh, good, you're here," and passes out. He wakes up with no knowledge of the supernatural and a lot of depressing false memories to fill the gaps. Dannyknowsthey can get his memories back—but can they get him to stay put long enough to figure out how?
Relationships: Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 29
Kudos: 232
Collections: Teen Wolf





	The Moment You Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts).



> The opening sentence of this fic popped into my head one morning while I was brushing my teeth. I shared it with the_wordbutler, who said, "Well, now I need to know what happens next." So now it's her birthday fic. Happy birthday, friend!
> 
> In case it's not ringing any bells, Fairvale is the location of the ever-charming Motel Glen Capri in ["Motel California."](https://teenwolf.fandom.com/wiki/Motel_California)
> 
> CN for food, the sheriff being kind of a jerk, Deaton also being kind of a jerk, Stiles being a _lot_ of a jerk, Scott being oblivious, magical memory alteration, discussion of less-than-savory practices related to prescription medications, and reference to canon character deaths. Please let me know if anything else should be tagged.

Stiles has been missing for four months, six days, and eighteen hours when he bangs twice on the Mahealanis' back door, says, "Oh, good, you're here," and passes out.

It's pure luck that Danny's there. The apartment seems too big and empty without Stiles there, so he eats dinner at his parents' place more nights than not. But reminders of Stiles linger here, too: pictures from the big family trip to Waimea, the ugly-ass LA Kings bobblehead set that Danny's dad insists on displaying proudly on the mantel, the flannel shirt Stiles left here five visits ago and never remembers to grab when they come back.

So most nights after dinner, Danny gets restless, and he goes for a run, a hooded jacket and heavier socks his only concession to the December chill and frequent bouts of rain, and he runs and runs and runs until he's too exhausted to hear his thoughts. He's putting on his running shoes when Stiles arrives. 

Danny doesn't believe in fate. But sometimes things work out better than he could've hoped.

Danny and his mom maneuver Stiles into the house and onto the couch while his dad calls Noah and Deaton. They arrange Stiles in what looks like a comfortable position. Then they sit next to the couch, Danny takes Stiles' hand, and they wait. What else can they do?

Objectively, Stiles looks like shit. He's gaunt and gray with wide purple circles under his eyes. His hair is long and unwashed, and the lower part of his face is covered with a patchy excuse for a beard. He’s shivering; he wouldn’t have needed his coat when he disappeared in August, but temperatures have been plummeting in these long December nights. His formerly black and white flannel shirt is now a uniform dirt shade. The right sleeve has a huge rip, revealing several jagged scratches on his arm. Danny itches to get supplies to clean them, but he doesn't dare until Deaton looks Stiles over. They're still smarting from the time Liam almost lost his arm because witch hazel turns out to activate a toxin in goblin spit.

On the other hand, Stiles is here. He's _here_.

For a driver obeying the speed limit, the drive from the Beacon County Sheriff's Station to the Mahealani house takes fifteen minutes. Jackson could do it in ten in the Porsche. Noah Stilinski's cruiser shrieks up the driveway in seven. From the living room window, Danny sees Noah leave the door hanging open—Danny wouldn't be surprised if he's left the engine running, too. He runs up to the door and bangs on it heavily. He even tries the knob, but come on. This is Beacon fucking Hills, home of the world's crankiest Nemeton. No one who knows that would leave a door unlocked.

Danny's dad is is closest, so he rolls over to open it, but Danny's right behind him, in case Noah tries to start something.

Noah shoves his way into the house as soon as the door opens. "Where is he? _Stiles?_ Damn it, Wikoli, _where is he_?"

"He's here, Noah. In the living room. But he's unconscious and looking worse for wear."

Noah tries to lunge for Danny. "What happened, huh? What did you do?"

" _Noah."_ With his silver hair and penchant for sweater vests, Wikoli Mahealani looks like a cross between Ironside and Mr. Rogers. Noah towers over him. But the steel in his spine and the edge to his voice _never_ lets you forget that he's in that chair because he fought—and damned near defeated—a basilisk. You do _not_ want to cross him. "Danny's not responsible for this, and you know it."

"I _know_ that my son has been missing for four months, and now he's come _here_ ," Noah snarls.

Danny's been wondering about that, too. But where he's been thinking _Why didn't Stiles come to the apartment where he lives?_ Noah's probably thinking, _Why didn't he come home to me?_ even though that house hasn't properly been Stiles' home for years.

"Behave or leave," Papa says firmly.

"My son—"

"My house."

Noah's shoulders slump, and Danny sees how haggard he is beneath the machismo. He wonders how long ago the man last showered, slept, shaved, or ate. Danny puts his hand on Papa's shoulder and says, "He's in the living room, Noah," offering an olive branch while reminding Noah where his loyalties lie. Noah nods and follows wordlessly.

Mama stands when they come into the room. She says Noah's name, but he isn't listening. He lurches the couch and drops into the chair next to it like someone's cut his strings. "Stiles," he sobs. He reaches out, smooths Stiles' hair, touches his face, like he can't believe Stiles is real and here, a feeling Danny appreciates.

Noah has questions. He'd hardly be himself if he didn't. He's not wild about their answers, but what can they say? Stiles came up to the house and passed out. No, they don't know what direction he came from. No, they don't know why he went to the back door. No, they don't know why here.

"Irene put Stiles' shoes by the door," Papa offers. "If you'd like to analyze them or the dirt on them. See if you can figure out where he's been."

Noah nods tersely. "I will."

"Leave some dirt for Deaton," Danny says. "He might want to run magical tests on it." What is his life, that these are sentences that leave his mouth?

Deaton arrives in a more sedate half-hour. His examination of Stiles is a bizarre mix of medical, magical, and bullshitical, as Stiles would say. When he's done, he says, "I see no signs of malicious magic. This is regular unconsciousness. He's moderately dehydrated and could use a few solid meals and a few nights' sleep. Otherwise, I'll clean up these wounds, and then I'm afraid the only thing we can do is wait."

With the unbeatable timing he seems to have been born with, Stiles opens his eyes.

*

Stiles wakes up on an unfamiliar couch in a unfamiliar room with too many strangers looking at him.

In front of him is a black guy with a shaved head and a stethoscope around his neck. Stiles tries not to grimace. He knows he looks roughed up, but now he has to explain to Mrs. Mahealani that he's a grown-ass adult with no health insurance and no way to pay for a doctor.

Next to the doctor is a silver fox in a wheelchair. He's wearing glasses and an honest-to-god argyle sweater-vest and has biceps the size of small trees. He's revving up a boatload of "hot for prof" fantasies Stiles never realized he had.

Mrs. Mahealani is standing behind Hot Prof with her hand on his shoulder, which Stiles supposes makes Hot Prof Mr. Mahealani. Ah, well. A boy can dream. Mrs. Mahealani looks older, which makes sense. It's been, what, five years since he saw her? But she still has the kind smile he remembers, the one that made him think of her when he woke up this morning in a goddamned _cave_.

In a coordinating armchair next to the couch sits one of _the_ hottest men Stiles has ever laid eyes on. He's Stiles' age, with dark brown hair and intense brown eyes. He's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and a hand over his mouth. In a different, consensual-pants-off-fun-times scenario, Stiles would jump at the hungry look the guy's giving him. Right now, from a random stranger, it's too much. Stiles looks away, but he can't stop sneaking glances. The guy looks like Mr. and Mrs. Mahealani, but Mrs. Mahealani only had a daughter. Is this a nephew? Or maybe Kimmy's trans and this is what he looks like now, which, _bless_ his doctors if that's the case.

(When Stiles was in fifth grade, second-grader Kimmy fell over backward while playing a ladybug in a school pageant and needed three older kids' help to get upright. Stiles had laughed himself sick offstage. Is it wrong to find him unbearably hot now?)

In the back of the group, looking ready to literally vault chairs to get his hands on Stiles, stands a sandy-haired middle-aged white guy Stiles would've clocked as a cop even without the beige polyester uniform and the Beacon County Sheriff's badge on his pocket.

"Jesus," Stiles groans, "did you have to call the cops?"

Mrs. Mahealani tuts like Stiles has said something absurd. "We didn't 'call the cops,' Stiles," she chides. "We called Noah. You would hardly expect us not to."

Well, yes, Stiles _would_ , and he doesn't know what "we called Noah" means besides that this guy's name is Noah (which sucks because his dad had been a cop named Noah). Christ, his head aches. His _everything_ aches.

"Now, Stiles," the doctor says calmly, "can you tell us what happened?"

"No, I can't," Stiles snaps. "Last night, I went to bed in my squa—my _perfectly legal residence_ in Fairvale, and today I woke up in a frigging _cave_ two miles outside this nightmare town that I put behind me eight years ago. I was hurt and confused, and I was hoping that Mrs. Mahealani still lived here, because she's one of the few nice people I knew in this hell town."

Sheriff Noah and formerly!Kimmy jerk forward, passionate defenses of their shitehole town no doubt at the ready, but the doctor holds up a hand. "Fairvale, you said?"

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles scratches his head. "Town like forty minutes west of here? Depressing but still better than Beacon Hills?" He looks around. Everyone's staring at him. "Ringing any bells?"

"We know the town, Stiles." Not!Kimmy reaches over and takes Stiles' hand in both of his. "We're confused about what you were doing there."

Stiles jerks his hand away. "I _live_ there. Also, consent, buddy. I don't care how hot you got, I don't hold hands with strange ladybugs."

In retrospect, that statement doesn't make a ton of sense, but it'd be _great_ if everyone stopped looking at him like he's sprouted two extra heads and a forked tail. "Stiles," Mrs. Mahealani says, and then she pauses, looking helplessly around the room.

"Who in this room do you recognize?" Mr. Mahealani asks.

What a weird question, but he seems serious, so Stiles answers seriously. "Well, the only one I know for sure is Mrs. Mahealani," he says, jerking his chin toward her. "I'm guessing you're Mr. Mahealani. You I've got a theory about." He glances at maybe!Kimmy and decides he's not ready to voice that theory yet. "You're a doctor, and you're the fuzz." He looks at Mr. Mahealani. "Why? Who else am I supposed to recognize?"

All hell breaks loose. Stiles has trouble following it, but the gist seems to be that they think he has memory loss.

"Memory loss." Stiles looks around this circle of strangers, waiting for someone to crack and start laughing. No one does, and no one looks like they want to. In fact, Sheriff Noah and not!Kimmy look like they're about to start crying.

"It looks that way," the doctor says.

"But I haven't lost memories," he says. "They're right here. Ask me anything."

"Who are we?" not!Kimmy asks.

"I don't know," Stiles shoots back. "Who _are_ you?"

"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Mahealani says. "We didn't realize, of course—well, you remember me, for some reason. This is my husband Wikoli and our son Danny. This is Dr. Alan Deaton, and in the back is Sheriff Noah Stilinski."

Stiles feels like he's been punched in the gut. "My dad's name was Noah Stilinski." Imposter Sheriff nods but doesn't seem able to speak.

"That's him, Stiles," Danny says. "That's your dad."

"My dad is _dead_ ," Stiles growls, half rising before he remembers why that's a bad idea. "He died while Mom was pregnant with me. Who the _fuck_ are you?"

"Stiles," Dr. Deaton says, "this is what I'm talking about. You've lost memories, and your mind has compensated by filling the gaps with things that never happened."

"Bullshit they never happened." He knows his life, and fuck these people for saying otherwise. "They're my _life_. Ask me."

"Stiles," Mr. Mahealani begins but then seems lost as to how to continue.

" _Ask me_."

"You know," Dr. Deaton says, unruffled, "I think I will."

*

True things that Stiles knows:

  * His name is Mieczysław "Stiles" Stilinski.
  * He's 23 years old and a University of Oregon graduate.
  * He grew up in Beacon Hills.
  * He's pansexual.
  * Irene Mahealani taught his fifth grade science class and is his favorite teacher of all time.
  * His mom died of frontotemporal dementia when he was ten.
  * Anything Reese's is his favorite candy.



Untrue things that Stiles believes:

  * His father died before he was born.
  * His best friend was Heather. He moved in with her and her parents after his mom died, but she disappeared when they were sixteen, and her parents threw him out. Since then he's been on his own.
  * He is and has always been single.



A true thing that Stiles has no idea about:

  * The supernatural



*

"It's remarkable," Deaton says in that tone that makes Danny want to smack him. These are people's lives, not interesting magical conundrums to test. "His mind has excised everything about the supernatural and everyone associated with it."

The memory loss is inconsistent. Some people and things, like the Hale pack, the Nemeton, and Danny, are completely gone. Others, like Heather and Mrs. Mahealani, he remembers from his past but thinks he hasn't interacted with them since whenever they started intersecting with the supernatural. Stiles knows he went to University of Oregon but thinks he did a psych major and no minors, instead of a folklore and public culture major with psych and legal studies minor. He doesn't know he's working on his MLIS.

Deaton has no idea how or why it happened, and he has no idea what to do about it. Not that he says that, but his silence seems more empty than purposefully blank, so Danny concludes he's as in the dark as the rest of them.

"This is _bullshit_!" Noah, to no one's surprise, is taking the news poorly. He keeps his voice down, because Stiles is asleep in the guest room, but he's on the verge of an explosion. "This is magic, right? It has to be."

"That would seem to be the most logical conclusion, yes," Deaton says. He keeps cleaning his supplies and packing them away like none of this concerns him.

"Well, magic is your area, isn't it?" 

"Would you go to a podiatrist for your heart troubles?" Deaton asks.

Noah stares at him. "What?"

"Magic users have specialties, Noah," Danny says. "Memory magic isn't one of Deaton's."

"I could try to do something about Stiles' lost memories, but without more information about how he lost them, I could easily make the situation worse."

"Shit," Noah says. He leans against the doorframe and rubs his hands over his face, likely trying not to contemplate what "worse" would look like.

"Are we—" Danny pauses and tries to find the right way to say this. "How sure are we that this is _our_ Stiles?"

Noah lowers his hands and glares like he wants to set Danny on fire with his mind. Deaton looks mildly intrigued. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Danny drops into the chair next to Deaton. "In our sophomore year of college, Lydia got into Many-Worlds Interpretation." He glances at Noah, who's showing no signs of recognition. "Parallel universes, basically."

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" Noah shouts. Danny shushes him, and he glares harder. "Are you seriously trying to say that this is Stiles from another fucking universe?"

Danny shrugs. "I'm saying it's a possibility. He was gone for over four months. We don't know where he was or what happened to him. If he's lost his memories, we need to focus on getting them back. If he doesn't have those memories because he's from a universe where those things never happened to him, then we need to focus on returning him to where he belongs and getting our Stiles back."

Deaton looks thoughtful as he snaps his medical bag closed. "I can perform a test to determine whether Stiles' missing memories are truly gone or merely locked within him. If he has them, we can be relatively sure he's 'our' Stiles. However, I _can't_ perform that test without arousing Stiles' suspicions. Unless his memory loss includes forgetting how Western medicine works, he'll know that this isn't it."

"Unless you do it while he's asleep," Danny says. 

Noah looks ready to explode again. Deaton looks at Danny with a steady gaze and says "He'll be upset if he finds out."

Danny huffs a humorless laugh. "I'm aware. But we need to know. Forget Many Worlds; we need to be sure how much _Stiles_ is in there."

Deaton looks at him a beat longer and then nods. "Very well." He walks toward the bedroom where Stiles is sleeping.

Danny starts to follow, but Noah puts his arm across the doorway to keep him in the living room. "I never thought I'd see the day," Noah says in a tone that suggests he _always_ thought he'd see the day.

"If you have suggestions for how to get him to consent to the magical memory test when he has no idea that magic exists, I'm all ears." Danny ducks under Noah's arm before he can respond.

The test is anticlimactic. Deaton burns herbs and chants softly in some language Danny doesn't recognize. A diamond of gold light floats above Stiles' head for a minute before fading away. It looks like rubbish to Danny, but Deaton seems pleased. "The memories are in him, but locked. He's our Stiles, just with something blocking him from accessing that part of himself."

Danny sags against the bed frame, relief sweeping through him. Not finding the memories wouldn't necessarily have proven anything, but he's grateful it didn't come to that. The Stiles they know—and who knows them—is rattling around in there. Now they have to find him.

Danny holds his hand out to Deaton. "Thank you, Alan," he says. "We appreciate everything you've done for us today."

Deaton glances briefly at Noah before he shakes Danny's hand with an infuriatingly enigmatic smile and saying, "Any time, Danny. You know that." Danny's not sure he does, but he nods and sees Deaton to the door.

Danny finds one of the grimoires Stiles forgot in the study a few years ago. He settles in the chair next to the guest bed and starts reading. Maybe it's creepy and inappropriate because Stiles doesn't remember him, but he doesn't like the idea of being far away. Hopefully future!Stiles will forgive past!Danny for being clingy.

*

Stiles wakes up and spends a split second hoping that everything's back to normal and he's at home. Sure, home is a literal ruin, and he's living there illegally. But it's _his,_ and it's familiar, and his stuff is there. And no one there says his memories are fake, that he has this cushy suburban life, and a _father_ , and a… a what? Who is Danny to him, that the guy watches him so intently and hovers nearby whenever he thinks he can get away with it?

Case in point: when Stiles turns his head, he sees Danny asleep in the chair next to the bed. Dude seems miserable; snoring, head at a funny angle, giant book pressing against his chest. Stiles can't get over how... casual it seems. Like, Danny genuinely thinks they have the kind of relationship where it's chill for him to sit in a chair like a creeper while Stiles sleeps.

Stiles had briefly entertained the idea that this situation was some elaborate prank, although he couldn't think of anyone who cared enough about him to do that. He's not sure if this is a shared delusion or a case of mistaken identity, but whatever it is, the other people in this house believe it wholeheartedly. Stiles isn't sure if he's relieved or terrified by that.

Stiles shifts, and the bed squeaks faintly. Danny startles awake and looks over sheepishly. "Oh. Hi. I didn't mean—I meant to be gone before—"

"Man, what were you doing here?"

Danny shrugs. "I needed to keep seeing that you're here and okay."

 _Okay_ is a stretch. Stiles takes in a breath and exhales slowly. "You can't say shit like that, man."

"Why not?" Danny asks, unperturbed. "It's true."

"Maybe," Stiles concedes. It's clearly Danny's truth, if not Stiles'. "But it's weird."

Danny considers and then laughs. "Fair enough." He stands and stretches, and, yeah, he's pretty easy on the eyes. This is still super weird. "Goodnight, Stiles."

Stiles grumbles a reply that could be interpreted as "Goodnight, Danny," and is mostly asleep before the door closes. Only in the morning does he think about how long it's been since he's been able to sleep with someone else in the room.

*

Against his better judgement, Danny calls Scott the next morning.

"He'll remember me," Scott insists.

"Scott, no offense, but he doesn't remember _me_. He doesn't remember his _dad_."

"He'll remember me," Scott says again, louder, like Danny just didn't hear him the first time.

Danny gives up. Life has shaken Scott's worldview in so many ways, but he never wavers in his belief that his friendship with Stiles is rock-solid—regardless of what condition it's _actually_ in. "Okay, but not now, okay? He won't take well to being ambushed."

"I'm not ambushing—"

"Scott, I'm saying that if you come over now, I won't let you in."

"Noah will," Scott says with an unwarranted level of smugness.

"This is not Noah's house, as my father will be happy to remind you both."

A telling silence falls on the other end of the line. If Wikoli Mahealani lays down the law, the situation is _dire_. "Uh, okay," Scott says, subdued. "But soon, right?"

"You'll be the first to know," Danny says and hangs up before Scott can realize that that wasn't an answer to his question.

Danny sighs. He likes Scott, he does. And he accepts that Stiles and Scott come as a package deal. But some days he would like not to deal with the strange mix of self-doubt and self-absorption that Rafael McCall wrought.

"Who was that?"

Danny glances up and shoves his phone into his pocket. He hadn't heard Stiles come up to the door of the room. Stiles is wearing the t-shirt and sweatpants Danny loaned him to sleep in, and he holds his own clothes bundled in his hands. He looks uncertain in a way he never does, even when he _is_ uncertain. "Your best friend," Danny says.

Stiles face shutters hard. "I don't have a best friend."

Danny smiles sadly. "Not that you remember, no."

"Whatever. I need clothes."

Danny stands. "I can wash what you got here in. Some of those stains might be in there for good, but we'll see what we can do."

"Yeah, great, but I can't keep switching between one outfit of mine and one of yours."

Danny loves seeing Stiles in his clothes, but he doesn't dare say that. "Yeah, okay. I need stuff, too. We'll make a run today."

Stiles blinks. "You don't live here?"

"I have an apartment in another part of town. I'm just... here a lot. And I'm still washing your clothes."

Stiles' jaw clenches. "I'd rather do it myself."

Stiles hates doing laundry, and Danny is neutral about it, so it falls to him in the chore rotation. But Stiles doesn't know that now. Stiles sees Danny as a stranger who wants to go through his stuff. "Okay," Danny says. "I'll need to show you how, though. The washer has quirks."

They walk toward the laundry room. Stiles keeps throwing Danny little glances from the corner of his eye. Danny bites down on his smile and says, "You can ask me questions. About stuff you don't remember."

"I remember everything; it's—" Stiles stops, takes a breath, visibly redirects himself. "You and my best friend—what's his name?"

"Scott."

Stiles repeats the name to himself. Watching Stiles work to remember Scott is one of the weirdest things Danny's seen—and he runs with a werewolf pack. "You two don't get along?"

"Usually we're fine," Danny says, "but you know the saying, 'like a dog with a bone'?"

"Sure."

Danny grins ruefully. "It's a great quality—until you're the bone."

Stiles gives a loud honk of a laugh, like always when something funny surprises him. Then he looks dumbstruck, like he hadn't realized he would do that. Like he hadn't realized he _could_ do that. Danny wonders for the thousandth time what happened and why Stiles' replacement memories are so miserable.

They start the laundry, and Danny's faintly amused that Stiles is as careless about it now as he was before. Danny throws in a load of his parents' clothes as well, earning a strange look from Stiles. Danny realizes that Stiles doesn't remember the dozens of loads of commingled Mahealani-Stilinski laundry this machine has seen. Stiles sees a stranger throwing his laundry in with other strangers' laundry.

Once they're in the car to head to the apartment, Danny throws his phone to Stiles. "Pick some music, if you want."

Stiles chooses Fleetwood Mac. That surprises Danny, because Stiles teases him so much about his "dad music." 

"So, are we going to your place first, or mine?" Stiles asks. 

Danny clutches the steering wheel. "They're—it's the same place."

Stiles looks over, his expression holding only mild interest. "Oh yeah? We roommates?"

Danny's phone has a text thread in which he, Deaton, and Noah are debating how much to tell Stiles about the life he's forgotten. In their first moment of solidarity in months, Danny and Noah favor telling him everything, while Deaton, no big surprise, counsels silence. The current compromise is to answer any question Stiles asks while not volunteering anything else. 

There are gray areas.

Danny says, "Engaged."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Stiles blurts.

Danny clenches his jaw. "Is that a problem?"

" _No,_ " Stiles says fervently. "I just can't imagine a universe where a basically homeless dude who barely finished college lands Mr. All-American." He grins. "Glad he was smart enough to lock it down once he had it."

Danny opens his mouth to remind Stiles that they're approaching their marriage differently, to give him the spiel— _Stiles'_ spiel—about equality and openness. Then he closes it. Stiles doesn't remember any of that, and Danny, for reasons he can't quite name, doesn't want to tell him.

Stevie Nicks sings on. Otherwise, the car is silent.

*

Here's what's fucking unnerving: Stiles has never lived with anyone romantically. He's never lived anyplace where he's had input over design and decor. _And_ he met Danny less than twenty-four hours ago. But the minute he walks into the apartment Danny claims they share, he sees it. Sees how the design merges their aesthetics and priorities. The couch that looks high-end but decadently comfortable. Stiles can imagine himself cramming the end table drawers full of books, notebooks, and pens. Even the color scheme—dark brown and turquoise with green and white accents—reflects that Danny seems drawn to oceans while Stiles is more of a forest guy. Stiles is standing in a place he's never been in before, and the most unsettling thing about it is how familiar it feels.

The walls are mostly bare, but Stiles supposes it takes time to collect enough art to cover them. The hallway walls are crowded with framed photos. Stiles stops in front of one, and... "Jesus."

"What's wrong?" Danny asks, at his side instantly.

Unable to form a real answer, Stiles points at the picture in front of him. "It's real," he says, and his voice comes out croaky. He's looking at a picture of Danny with someone who looks _identical_ to Stiles. Like, completely, totally, down-to-the-last-mole identical. Whatever's going on here, if it's a delusion, he's part of it now, too. 

No big surprise, there are lots of pictures of Stiles and Danny together. There are several of Stiles and the sheriff, both with and without a woman who the sheriff usually has an arm around, and of Danny with his family, including a dark-haired young woman Stiles assumes is _actually_ Kimmy. Stiles is in a couple of those pictures, as well. But he finds _none_ of Stiles, the sheriff, and Danny.

"The sheriff doesn't like you, does he?"

Danny's expression does something super complicated, and he lets out a resigned sigh. "He's not my biggest fan, no."

"So is he a racist or a homophobe? I bet it's both, right? I mean, he's a cop."

Danny flinches. "What? No. He's—Stiles, Noah's a good guy. Yeah, of course the department has race problems, but your dad's trying hard to make it better. He doesn't want Beacon County to be like that."

"So it's the gay thing."

" _No_ , it's not the—" Danny blows out a sharp breath. "You got involved in something in high school. A... hobby, I guess. Noah wasn't super excited about you picking it up."

"Is it furdom?" Stiles asks. "Am I a furry? 'Cause, I mean, I don't judge, but I do overheat. I can't imagine myself enjoying that."

Danny chokes on his laugh. "No, you're not a furry. It's—what it is isn't that important. What matters is that your dad had hoped you'd lose interest in college, but you didn't. And then he hoped that whoever you settled down with would pull you out of it." He grins. "If anything, I've pulled you further in."

"Huh," Stiles says. Danny has ginormous muscles and inhabits his body in an easy way that says he's used to physical activity. That mysterious doctor had run weird tests on him when they thought he was asleep. Everyone has been subtly preventing him from leaving the house. This is either a cult or the mob. He keeps this conclusion to himself.

The family photos hang on one side of the hall. On the other side is a row of pictures that must be Stiles and Danny's friends. Faces come and go, but four in particular stick around through what looks like several years. It takes a bit of looking, but Stiles finds a picture of him, Danny, and these four. He waves Danny over. "Who are they?"

Danny half-smiles, like he's proud of Stiles for picking out the important figures. "Lydia Martin," says, pointing to the strawberry blond with the intimidating fashion sense. "You had a massive crush on her from third grade through tenth. Then you realized you're better as friends, and you've been a terrifying force in this town ever since. Noah's dating her mom. Casually, thank God, because I can't image what would happen if they lived together and you two spent even more time together."

Danny's finger moves on to a dude with even bigger muscles than his own and eyebrows that look like they could kill someone. "Derek Hale. A grumpy asshole, and the glue that holds our ragged band together." 

Next is a bright-eyed, dark-haired young woman who looks like she's been through serious shit. "Kira Yukimura. Our nicest friend. Also deadly with a katana, so don't mess with her." 

The last person in the photo has floppy brown hair and a broad smile. He has an arm slung over Stiles' shoulders. "Scott Delgado," Danny says. "Your best friend."

"The dog with the bone?"

That startles a half-laugh out of Danny. "That's the one."

"Huh." Stiles leans closer to examine himself in the picture. He looks like a complete dip, just better dressed. He sees nothing about this other Stiles that would make these people like him. That would make Danny want them to spend their whole lives together.

"They want to see you," Danny says quietly, like he's heard Stiles' thoughts. "Everyone does."

Stiles doesn't like the sound of _everyone_. The people he's met so far have been overwhelming enough. And yet he's so curious about these friends he supposedly has. He taps the frame of the picture. "These four. And their significant others, I guess. Nobody else."

"Sure," Danny agrees instantly. "I'll tell them. And no one else yet, I promise."

Stiles wants to argue with that _yet_ , but he keeps it to himself. He follows Danny into the bedroom and is struck again by the strangeness of the life he supposedly leads. The problem isn't the bed—Stiles has never dated, but he's fucked around enough that one queen bed doesn’t freak him out. The problem is everything else in the room—the two nightstands that announce which side is whose as clearly as if they'd had nametags on them, the single closet that houses their clothes together.

The bathroom is small and cozy. Danny's standing by the sink, smirking as he holds two toothbrushes toward Stiles. One has a plain blue-green handle; the other looks like Batman.

Stiles scoffs and grabs Batman. "Ask me a hard one next time."

Danny laughs. He takes back the toothbrush and drops them both in the side pocket of a duffel bag he's unearthed from somewhere. "Checking to make sure you don't have brain damage." He pulls an orange prescription bottle from the medicine cabinet and tosses it to Stiles. "Bet you've missed these."

Stiles stares uncomprehendingly at the bottle. It instructs Stilinski, Mieczysław to ingest one tablet of amphetamine salt combination twice daily. He looks at Danny. "What the fuck is this?"

Danny stares back. "It's your Adderall."

" _His_ Adderall," Stiles spits. This is too fucking much.

Danny rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me you don't have ADHD."

"Of course I do. But I haven't had meds for it in seven fucking years, since Heather's parents kicked me out of their house and off their insurance. What would my body even _do_ with this shit anymore?"

Danny shrugs helplessly. "Well, it's yours. Take it, don't take it; nobody will force you."

Stiles drops the bottle into the pocket of his borrowed sweatpants. He won't take one now, but maybe tomorrow, if he hasn't broken free, he'll start taking them. Sparingly. Danny's generous, but he probably wouldn't refill his missing fiancé's prescription for Stiles. Stiles remembers how to ration. Whatever's left when he gets back to Fairvale, he can sell.

*

On the pretext of checking on Stiles' plants, Danny had snuck into the apartment's guest room/ritual room/library and stuffed a bunch of grimoires and magic journals into the bottom of his duffel bag. He's sitting in his parents' guest room, aka Stiles' room, a few hours later, flipping through one of them, desperate for any clue as to what's going on. A throat clears in the doorway, and Danny looks up. Stiles is back in his own clothes, clean but ripped up and worn out. His feet are bare and he's shoved up the sleeves of his flannel. Other than the scratches on his arm, it could be any one of a hundred afternoons they've spent like this, here and at the apartment. Danny tries to swallow, but he can't clear the lump in his throat.

Stiles looks sheepish. Stiles often looked sheepish before, but not since he came back. Stiles with no memories has the brittle bravado of someone who's gone a long time with only himself in his corner. He holds something out to Danny, and it takes Danny a minute to identify it as a waterlogged piece of paper, folded many times over.

"I, uh, I guess when I put my pants in the washer, I didn't check my pockets that well?" Stiles says.

Danny grins. "Try _at all_ , babe." They both flinch. "Sorry," Danny says. "It's... you're kind of known for that."

"Oh. Okay." For a minute they hover awkwardly on their respective sides of the room, not looking at each other. Then Danny puts down his book, stands, and walks to the door to take the paper. "This is your room, for as long as it needs to be," he says as he gently tugs the paper out of Stiles' hand. "You can come in, even if someone else is here."

Stiles shrugs and doesn't answer, doesn't look at Danny. Danny looks at the paper, which has his name on the front in Stiles' spidery script, the water saturating the page spreading the letters across the small space. "You didn't read it?" Danny says, surprised.

Stiles shrugs. "It's addressed to you."

"You wrote it."

Stiles clenches his jaw. " _He_ wrote it."

Danny feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on him. "Yeah," he says weakly, "he did." Unable to meet Stiles' eye, Danny focuses on the soggy piece of paper. By the time he has it open, with only minimal tearing at the places where it was folded, Stiles has slipped away. Danny feels bereft, and then relieved, and then guilty. He grumbles to himself about being ridiculous and starts reading as best he can. This piece of paper was folded, unfolded, and refolded multiple times before Stiles threw it in the wash. Even without the water damage, there would've been unreadable pieces.

_Danny,_

_Did [SMUDGE] know that magic [SMUDGE] asshole? Well it [SMUDGE]! It [SMUDGE] a body to settle in and the [SMUDGE] handle it. Like, say, an ADHD and panic-attack-riddled [a line unreadable here] Nogitsune. That, my friend, is a body that can't [SMUDGE] magic._

_I've [SMUDGE] the exercises [SMUDGE] me, but they can only do so much. I [SMUDGE] a small fire at work yesterday. No one was hurt, thank fuck, and Ben didn't [SMUDGE] out, but it's the last straw, you know?_

_[SMUDGE] found a possible lead. The [SMUDGE]ack in [SMUDGE]ice, O[SMUDGE], emissary who might be able to help me. His help may be [SMUDGE]_

_I'm [SMUDGE] I ran off and didn't tell you this. I was afraid [SMUDGE] talk me out of it. You've [SMUDGE] proud of my magic. I didn't want you to [SMUDGE] give it up. I [SMUDGE] disappoint you._

_Please [SMUDGE] to Dad and the pack (sorry to dump that on you, too)._

_I love [SMUDGE] more than everything._

_Stiles_

Danny rereads the letter until his eyes water. This is the best he can get from it. He stares at it for another long beat, not seeing it. Then he picks up his phone and opens the pack text thread.

 **ME:** derek I need some research from you

 **DEREK:** me? why?

 **LYDIA:** yes, danny, why derek?

 **ME:** i need a list of all the packs in the US that are in one of the states that start with O and in a town name that ends in "ice"

 **LYDIA:** this is a joke right

 **ME:** wish it was

*

Lydia looks more intimidating in person, but she has a twinkle in her eyes that makes Stiles think they could really get into trouble together. Yeah, okay, her fiancé is a sheriff's deputy, but Stiles has years of practice evading Johnny Law. 

Kira is sweeter in person, but she has steel in her eyes and arm muscles that make him painfully aware of how easily she could slice him in two. She seems protective of Danny, so Stiles considers it a real possibility.

Derek is as grumpy as his picture made him seem, but, shit, Stiles recognizes a fellow CPTSDer when he sees one. This dude has lived through some serious shit.

Scott arrives a half hour late, bounding into the apartment with his arms spread for a hug and a loud, "Buddy!" booming from his lips.

Stiles dodges the arms, not super keen on hugging strangers, but he pastes on a smile and says, "Scott, right?"

Arms still open, Scott turns an insufferably smug grin at Danny. "See?" he says. "Told you he'd remember me."

Feeling unexpectedly prickly about this treatment of Danny, Stiles gives an exaggerated shrug. "Not a clue, man, but I saw a bunch of pictures in the apartment, and you're the only one left."

Scott drops his arms. "You don't... remember me?" He sounds genuinely hurt, and Stiles feels for him. But it's ballsy to assume Stiles would recognize this dude, best friend or no, when he doesn't recognize the guy he's supposedly engaged to.

Stiles shrugs again, more normally. "Sorry, dude. I only remember Mrs. Mahealani."

" _Fascinating,_ " Lydia says. She looks ready to launch into a slew of questions Stiles doesn't want to answer.

Parrish saves him by kissing Lydia's cheek and saying, "Hey, let's eat and _then_ do science."

"If I must," Lydia says. Everyone else laughs, but Stiles isn't so sure she's joking.

Scot still looks like a kicked puppy. He mumbles that Malia—who must be his girlfriend or wife or whatever—said to tell everyone she's sorry she can't make it. But he looks shifty while he says it, and Stiles notes that _Malia said to tell everyone she’s sorry she can’t make it_ isn’t the same as Malia _being_ sorry she can’t make it.

Derek's brought hamburgers, which he heads outside to grill, though it's December and even in California that's pushing it. Kira has sushi, a rambling story about getting good at making it during a study abroad ("I find the rolling soothing."), and two giant bags of chips, because "Why wouldn't I?" Stiles likes Kira. Lydia and Jordan have two trays of weird, fancy appetizers that Stiles can't identify and knows people will eat only because they're scared of Lydia. Scott's empty-handed. He says it's because he came straight from work, but from the looks the others give him, Stiles suspects this is just how Scott is.

"So, where's work?" Stiles asks. He's shit at smalltalk, but he'll make the effort. This room holds the sucker who'll open a crack for Stiles to leave through. He just has to find the right lever to pry it open.

Scott gives him more wounded puppy eyes, like Stiles not knowing where he works is the greatest betrayal he's suffered (which, if that's true, godspeed to you and your charmed life, buddy). "At the animal clinic on the other side of town. I'm taking a year off to save up for vet school." He brightens. "Oh, hey, you met my boss today. Alan Deaton?"

The others groan. "Thanks, Scott," Danny grumbles.

"No, actually, _thanks, Scott_ ," Stiles snaps. "What the hell, Danny? You couldn't bother to get a real human doctor in to examine me? You brought a _vet_?"

"Hey, Stiles, it's okay," Derek says, trying to soothe. To _placate_. "A lot of us use Deaton as our doctor." Which supports Stiles' theory that this is a cult or an organized crime outfit. 

After an awkward pause as everyone tries to figure out how to recover from this conversational gaffe, Kira hesitantly offers, "Who saw the sunrise this morning?"

After that, conversation is easier, if stilted. They relax gradually, aided by good food and a couple bottles of wine Lydia's brought.

"It's like that time," Scott's saying. He leans over and swats Stiles' knee. "Hey, Stiles, do you remember, junior year, when we had to try to convince Coach Finstock that we—" He freezes. The others clam up and try to act like they weren't frantically shushing him.

Stiles snorts. Clearly this relates to his mysterious "hobby" that no one will tell him about. The way they get so worked up at the mere mention of it does nothing to dispute Stiles' cult/mob theory. "It's fine, dudes," he says. "No need to get so stressed. I don't remember it."

He's clearly said the wrong thing. Danny stands abruptly. "I need air," he says, like no person outside a movie _ever._ He stalks out of the room. Derek looks like he wants to follow, but Kira holds him back. He keeps glancing toward the door, though. 

Conversation resumes, more awkward and subdued than before. Stiles tries to act normal and, truth be told, he doesn't realize how long Danny's been gone until Derek leaps out of his seat. "I'm going to see if Danny's all right," he says, also very cinematically, and leaves. 

Stiles watches him go with interest. Danny's mentioned that their Stiles has been gone for over four months. He wonders if Derek and Danny are… comforting each other.

He waits a few minutes and then slips out of the room with a muttered excuse about the bathroom. He needn't have bothered. No one seems disturbed by his departure. Scott looks relieved. Stiles isn't surprised; he's watched Scott's expression grow glummer the more he realizes that _this_ Stiles isn't _his_ Stiles. 

Stiles uses the bathroom, for form's sake. Then he wanders the main floor until he hears Derek's surprisingly mellow voice drifting out of the kitchen. Stiles stops, instinct telling him to stay further back than he might've otherwise. "…any help you need," Derek's saying. "You don't have to do this alone."

"I know, and I appreciate it," Danny says. "I'd be happy to ask if I knew what to ask for. I wish I knew what he'd figured out."

"We're looking through our libraries. And I found those names you wanted." Stiles hears crinkling, like paper being unfolded. "Banderas Rodriguez in Bernice, Oklahoma. Rachlin in Galice, Oregon. Washington in Brice, Ohio." After an embarrassed pause, Derek adds, "And Windle in Alice, Ontario. I didn’t find anything in Oaxaca."

Danny laughs softly. "Shit, I hope it isn't Oaxaca. I don't want to deal with Calaveras again." He pauses. "You'll help me write this email, right? We don't need me accidentally getting us into another disaster by admitting our emissary went missing for four months and doesn't remember how to do his job."

Shaken, Stiles slips away from the kitchen and goes back to the living room. He vaguely remembers his mom saying that eavesdroppers seldom hear good things about themselves. He wishes he'd listened. 

He has no idea what an emissary is, but apparently their Stiles was one, and his absence might get them in trouble with… who? Other cults? He's not clear on what's going on there. But for the first time he contemplates what the others might eventually expect of him. He has to find a way out of here before they expect it. 

It occurs to Stiles that he's in this hallway alone. From here, he could get to the back door without having to pass the kitchen or the living room. He takes off his shoes so he'll make less noise and inches his careful way toward the door. He can't hear the conversation in the living room from here, but Danny and Derek seem unperturbed in the kitchen. He reaches the door and gets his fingers around the handle, sweet freedom only inches away.

"Nice night."

Stiles damned near flails out of his skin. " _Jesus_!" he yelps. Scott's leaning against the wall behind him, looking like everything's the greatest, like he hasn't, impossibly, snuck up on Stiles and scared the living shit out of him. "What the hell, dude?"

Scott shrugs and saunters forward like it's no big deal. "Sorry," he says, and sounding in no way sincere. "I heard you headed for the door and thought, _yeah. It's a nice night. I'll go sit with him on the deck_."

If Scott thought that, Stiles will eat... well, not his hat, because he doesn't have a hat, but something gross. He won't make a scene, though, because he wants these people to like him. The more they like him, the more they'll let down their guard. He slides open the door and makes a sweeping _you first_ gesture. Scott gives him a goofy grin and bounds onto the deck.

Stiles grits his teeth and follows. This isn't the outcome he was hoping for, but it's taught him some things. He can bide his time. The right moment will come along.

*

At Derek's suggestion, Danny emails the seconds of the four packs, instead of the alphas. Three—in Oklahoma, Ohio, and Ontario—respond in under thirty minutes, saying they've never heard of Stiles. After four agonizing hours, the alpha of the pack in Oregon sends a terse message saying, _We should meet. Come up here tomorrow. Don't bring Stiles._

 **FROM:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com  
**TO:** derek@halefamily.net; lmartin@mit.edu; +3 others  
**FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

Should I go?

**FROM:** derek@halefamily.net  
**TO:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com; lmartin@mit.edu; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

Yes. And take me with you. 

**FROM:** katanayukimura@gmail.com  
**TO:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com; lmartin@mit.edu; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

Take me, too. Sorry, Danny. Usually I'd say you have enough people skills to handle it, but this situation is… weird. 

**FROM:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com  
**TO:** katanayukimura@gmail.com; derek@halefamily.net; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

Fair. This situation is really fucking weird. 

Lydia, can you keep Stiles occupied while we're gone? I have a feeling he'll bolt the instant he's got an opening. 

**FROM:** lmartin@mit.edu  
**TO:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com; katanayukimura@gmail.com; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

Yes, of course. Maybe I'll snoop while I'm there. 

**FROM:** puppyeyes.delgado@gmail.com  
**TO:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com; lmartin@mit.edu; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

I'll stay with him, too!

**FROM:** lmartin@mit.edu  
**TO:** puppyeyes.delgado@gmail.com; daniel.mahealani@gmail.com; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

No, Scott. You'll spend the day looking sad and asking if he remembers you yet. We want him to _want_ to stay.

Have fun in Oregon. 

**FROM:** derek@halefamily.net  
**TO:** daniel.mahealani@gmail.com; lmartin@mit.edu; +3 others  
**RE: FWD: RE:** Seeking Information Regarding Emissary Stiles Stilinski

I'm just glad it isn't Ontario.

*

A minder! Stiles slams his hands against his thighs. They've left him a motherfucking _minder!_

He has a plan. It started forming the instant Danny said he was heading out of town today and crystallized when Danny threw him an old iPhone and said, "For emergencies." Because that old phone has the Lyft app.

It should be so easy. Wait until the elder Mahealanis have left for work and Danny for whatever he's going. ( _Oregon. He's going to Galice, Oregon to get "his" Stiles back.)_ Schedule the pickup for the end of the block, and then scram.

Instead he's stuck here, because Lydia is with him. _Babysitting_ him.

Five minutes ago, Danny kissed Lydia's cheek and bolted with barely a glance at Stiles. Now she looks at him with glittering eyes and says, "If you had your memories, we would be going for mani-pedis. Because you adore them but won't admit it, so the only times you get them are when someone 'makes' you. Given your current unusual circumstances, I'm letting you choose our activities for the day. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I hope you appreciate it."

Stiles rolled his eyes. " _So_ generous," he says bitingly. 

He calculates fast. What's his best play here? Get her out in public where he can give her the slip? Or would she anticipate that and watch him more closely? Maybe he should keep her here, get her to let her guard down. "Do you bake?" he asks.

Lydia studies him, clearly trying to work out his angle. Shit, she _does_ know him, or someone similar. "Only because Irene Mahealani's kitchen was _made_ for bread-baking," she says. "But I'm on to you."

She's not, but he'll happily let her think she is, if it keeps her from looking closely at what he's actually doing. 

*

Inside the car, quiet reigns. Not the comfortable quiet Danny's used to sharing with Derek and Kira. This is a tense, brittle silence with sharp teeth waiting to bite. Kira, bless her relentless optimism, made several attempts at conversation early in the drive, but since the third try fizzled out with nothing more than grunts (Derek) and glares (Danny), she's dropped it. The drive from Beacon Hills to Galice takes four hours, and they're feeling every minute of it.

Danny feels bad about how surly he's being. Or, well, no, he _doesn't_ feel bad, but he feels like he _ought to_ feel bad, and he feels bad about _that_. Which Stiles would tell him is ridiculous. Except that he _wouldn't,_ not now, not Stiles-without-memories, and the cycle starts again.

Everyone's phones ding. Danny dives for his, but Derek beats him, unsurprisingly. "Lydia," he says. "They're making bread."

Danny struggles to picture it. He struggles to picture Stiles in his current state holding still long enough.

"That's good!" Kira says delightedly. She's too proper a driver to take a hand off the wheel, but she risks a glance at Danny, beaming. "We'll get this sorted out, Danny. You'll see."

"And if we don't? If his memories never come back?"

"Then you get to woo him again!" Kira says brightly. Danny has no idea where she finds this well of eternal optimism. Her relationships with Scott and Malia turned into flaming disasters, but she still believes in love with a terrifying ferocity.

"Except he hates us. All of us. Including Danny," Derek says.

"Give that man a prize!" Danny says.

Kira glares at Derek in the rearview. "You don't need to be fatalistic," she says tartly.

"You don't need to sugarcoat it, either," Derek counters.

If Stiles remembered werewolves and the kanima and the Darach and the Nogitsune, but had forgotten that he was with Danny, Danny could recreate the magic they had. But with his current ordinary-yet-dismal fabricated backstory, Stiles looks at the cozy suburban world of Beacon Hills and sees an uncrossable gulf. Forget making Stiles fall in love with him again. Danny's not sure he can convince Stiles to stay in Beacon Hills right now.

*

Baking bread with Lydia ends up being surprisingly fun. She's slyly funny and terrifyingly sharp, calling Stiles on his bullshit and challenging him to work smarter _and_ harder. They have three loaves at different stages in the process when Stiles looks at her and says, "I didn't have you pegged as a baker."

"Bread only," she says. "It fascinates me. It's science, and then you eat it."

Stiles snorts. "They teach you that at MIT?"

"They've taught me a great many things," Lydia says acidly.

Stiles puts up his hand and steps back, recognizing that he's crossed a line. "I guess I don't get it," he admits. 

Her eyes narrow. "Get what?"

"You're at MIT. Scott's going to be a vet. Danny does things with computers that I don't understand, and I am _very_ good with computers. I'm not sure what the others do, but you all seem to have your lives together. What do you want with _me_?"

Lydia gives him a flat, unimpressed look. "You belong with us, Stiles," she says, like it's that simple. "You don't know that, but we do, and until you do, too, nothing will be right."

Stiles stares. Lydia is by far the least emotional person he's met here, but then she goes and says something like this as though it's a simple truth rather than a load of sentimental bullshit. 

Suddenly deeply uncomfortable and itching in his skin, Stiles pushes up from the counter, stretching. "I'm gonna hit the head." For a second, Lydia looks like she's considering forbidding it, or insisting on going with him. "Lydia," he says warningly, "let a man piss in peace."

She immediately looks flustered and chagrined, which surprises him. "No, of course, of course," she says. "Go."

Stiles heads to the upstairs bathroom. It'll make for a longer, more dangerous drop, but Lydia will be less likely to hear him clanking around. Stiles silently apologizes to Mrs. Mahealani, steals a pillowcase from the linen closet, and jams his stuff into it. He doesn't have much: the small handful of outfits Danny grabbed for him from the apartment; the clothes he arrived in, torn but clean; and his Batman toothbrush.

Working slowly enough to avoid the loudest squeaks but quickly enough that, if he's lucky, he'll be gone before Lydia comes looking for him, Stiles opens the bathroom window as wide as it goes and removes the screen. Dropping out of a second-story window will never be his favorite thing, but it feels like his best chance for getting out of here. He throws his pillowcase down and shimmies out after it. It's slow, careful work to be sure he doesn't lose his balance and make the drop before he's ready.

The scary part, Stiles reflects as he dangles from the windowsill, isn't the landing, or the long fall down. No, the scary part is the moment where you convince yourself to let go, while every instinct you have screams to hold on. The moment you let go is a betrayal, and it feels harder every time. One of these times, he won't be able to do it, and he'll get caught because he's still holding on.

Eventually he makes the drop, clamping his mouth shut so he makes no sound. He plummets toward the ground, trying to position himself so he doesn't land wrong. And then he doesn't land at all.

Or rather, he lands in the sense that he reaches the ground, but he _doesn't_ land in the sense that he's caught and lowered gently to the ground by strong arms around his waist.

"What the fuck?"

Scott beams serenely, like he hasn't done the weirdest thing in the fucking world. Because, number one, _what the fuck_? Number two, where had he come from? Stiles had checked extensively before he jumped; Scott wasn't there. _No one_ was there. Dude just... appeared. Out of absolutely nowhere.

"Hey, man," Scott says affably.

"Hey, man?" Stiles echoes, sure he sounds hysterical—but quiet, because he doesn't want to tip off Lydia. " _Hey, man_?!?"

Scott shrugs. "Yeah?"

"Where the fuck did you come from? How the fuck did you catch me?"

"I came by to see you, say hi. Heard you making noise back here and thought I'd come check it out."

Which is... absolutely not true. Stiles worked _hard_ to do that quietly. It might not be silent, but _no way_ had Scott heard him from the front of the house.

He leaves that aside and focuses on what he really needs to know: "You gonna rat me out?"

"You gonna take me with you?"

"Oh, what the hell, dude? _No,_ I'm not taking you with me! Why the hell would I do that?"

Scott shrugs, unconcerned. "Because if you don't, I'm taking you inside to Lydia?"

"You can _try_ ," Stiles scoffs, dropping into a fighting stance.

Scott cocks his head and looks at him curiously. "Yeah, dude, you really don't want to try that."

Stiles pauses. He heard absolutely zero bravado in Scott's tone. He stated it like a fact as ordinary as weather and as completely inarguable. Stiles is no slouch in a fight, but he finds himself believing Scott when he says Stiles can't take him. Plus, every second he spends fighting Scott is another second Lydia might notice him missing and come looking for him, and he'd so, _so_ like to avoid that.

"Whatever," Stiles says as he tromps toward the gate. "But you're paying for half the Lyft."

Scott frowns. "Why would we need a Lyft? I'll get us there."

It's ridiculous, but that feels like the world looking up for a change.

*

Half an hour later, their phones chime again. Danny doesn't bother reaching for his; Derek will beat him to it. "Lydia," Derek says. Then after a beat, "Oh."

 _Now_ Danny dives for his phone, scanning his notifications in horror. He feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his chest and smashes it down ruthlessly.

"What?" Kira demands from the driver's seat. "What's going on?"

"Stiles tried to escape," Derek says. "Said he had to piss and snuck out the bathroom window."

"The bathroom window?" Kira sounds horrified.

"Upstairs," Danny clarifies, because that feels important. He drops his phone onto the seat. "This is what I'm talking about. He doesn't remember us. He's doing everything he can to get back to the life he thinks we're keeping him from."

Their phones chime, and Derek says quietly, "He's with Scott. Lydia saw them taking off west on Scott's bike."

"West," Danny says dully. "He's going to Fairvale."

"What was Scott doing there?" Kira asks.

"Exactly what we knew he would, even though we told him not to," Derek says. He pauses. "Well, Stiles is in for a big surprise when he gets there."

Danny takes a deep breath. "Or we are," he says.

*

When Scott said he'd get them there, Stiles had assumed—baselessly, he now realizes—that Scott meant he had a car. Instead, he finds himself clinging for dear life to Scott's waist as they hurtle westward on a motorcycle barely big enough to deserve the name.

When they reach Fairvale, Scott slows from "immortal daredevil" to "ninety-year-old paranoiac." Stiles groans as they putter through the streets, but Scott doesn't hear him (or pretends not to). The slower speed does at least make it easier to give directions. Stiles tingles with anticipation. Yeah, his building may be a derelict that should be condemned and demolished, but it's _home_ , and he can't wait to get back to it.

Something's wrong with his building.

Scott pulls up to the address Stiles has given him— _Stiles_ ' address. But no abandoned, crumbling old paint factory awaits him. Instead he's looking at some straight-up gentrification bullshit, with a chiropractor and a Trader Joe's on the main floor and fucking _condos_ above.

Stiles doesn't realize he's having a panic attack until he comes back to himself enough to notice that he's standing on a sidewalk with his hand on Scott's chest, matching his breathing to Scott's. Scott waits until the worst of the panic seems to have passed and then says, "Want to talk about it?" He's so calm Stiles wants to smother him. 

"Where's my building? The place where I live, where my stuff is. It isn't much stuff, and it isn't great, but it's _mine_. And I do _not_ appreciate some hipster urban planner with five fancy degrees and zero life experience replacing it with fucking _Two-Buck Chuck_!"

"Can I tell you what I think?" Scott asks.

" _No_." Stiles gnaws on his fingernail for a second. "Okay, fine, _yes_."

"You've never lived here."

"Jesus, don't start."

"No, listen, Stiles," Scott continues relentlessly, because he _seems_ nice but is actually an asshole, " _you've never lived here._ You and your family moved to Beacon Hills when you were three. Before that you lived south, like, San Francisco area. I don't think you've _been_ to Fairvale since our junior year of high school."

Stiles' hands are firmly planted in his hair. "How the hell would you know that? Does he tell you _everything_ in his life, huh, Scotty? He tell you when he takes a shit? How's his sex life?"

"No, Stiles—stop." Scott looks distressed. "I meant that the last time we were in Fairvale, it was... memorable. If you'd had to come here again, you would've mentioned it."

"Of course I've _come here,_ jackass. I _live here_!"

"You don't live here! Your memory loss—"

" _I DON'T HAVE MEMORY LOSS_!"

It's a bellow, a roar, and a dude walking two long-haired dachshunds crosses quickly to the other side of the street.

"Stiles—"

"Memory loss," Stiles begins, and his voice has dropped into that super scary quiet register that means _run. Run **now**_ , "means loss. Gaps. Forgetting your name or the last four months. I have no gaps. Zero. I remember my whole life."

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

Stiles' eyes narrow. "What, you wanna test me?"

Scott stares at him. "Okay, let's go." He pulls them off to the side so they're out of the way of foot traffic—although foot traffic is giving them a _plenty_ wide berth. "What'd you do for your last birthday?"

Stiles waves his hand at the building. "I squat in an abandoned paint factory, Scott. What do you think I did?"

"Okay, try this: do you remember your mom's funeral?"

"Fuck you, of course I do. Thanks _so much_ for reopening that wound."

Scott nods sadly. "Do you remember Heather's parents kicking you out?"

"Wow, you are a _font_ of positivity."

"And you remember leaving," Scott says doggedly.

Stiles snorts. "I threw my shit in a duffel bag and hit the fucking road."

"Okay, which of those things is clearer in your memory: the funeral, or leaving the house?"

"My mom's funeral, _of course_."

"Even though it happened when you were ten, and the other when you were sixteen?"

"It was my _mom's funeral_. I don't care how long ago it happened."

"But don't the memories feel different? Like, your mom's funeral feels crisp, right, but leaving the house is fuzzy around the edges?

"Maybe?" Stiles shrugged. "Maybe I was stoned. Heather and I smoked a lot of pot. Her parents were rich enough not to care."

Scott groans. "Your brain will invent literally any memory it needs to plaster over the gaps."

"Hey!" Stiles says sharply, half amazed he can speak through his fury, "I'm not inventing anything."

Scott shakes his head sadly. "Yeah, you are, but—" He stops. "This isn't helping. Where else did you need to stop?"

"Nowhere," Stiles says. It hits him then, slamming down like an avalanche. There's nowhere else. He doesn't believe what Scott's saying about memory gaps, but _something_ happened to his life, and the result is that everything he owns fits in his pockets and one pillowcase. He sinks onto the edge of one of the giant terra cotta planters that line the sidewalk. _Adversity gives you perspective,_ Babcia used to say. But _too much_ perspective may definitely be a thing.

Scott stands silently beside him for a minute and then says, "Are you hungry? I could eat." Scott, Stiles has realized, could _always_ eat. Scott bumps Stiles with his shoulder. Stiles falls into the planter. "I'll buy."

Stiles smiles at him weakly. "My two favorite words," he says. He narrows his eyes and points at the Trader Joe's in front of them. "Just not _there_."

Scott frowns theatrically and puts his hand over his heart. "I would _never_."

Stiles snorts. He's livid at the situation, heartbroken, and uncertain. But he just can't stay mad at Scott for long.

*

The Rachlin pack lives on fifty acres of rural Oregon forest, not a branch of it developed or harvested except for the central compound where the pack lives. The buildings—the main house, four smaller houses, and two storage buildings—have a rustic look, like the pack built it themselves, but they look solid, like they actually knew what they were doing.

Danny watches Derek relax with every yard they travel down the driveway and away from "civilization," but Danny feels twitchy. Who knows how reception is out here. If things go south, who will they be able to reach, and what would they be able to do?

Alpha Betty Rachlin is a handsome, powerfully built Takelma woman in her mid-50s. Her black hair, even braided, falls to her waist. She's waiting on the porch of the main house in flannel and jeans and steel-toed boots. Danny wonders if she and Stiles bonded over fashion. On the other hand, Stiles would've called her expression _resting alpha face_ , and it looks like it has no time for bullshitters. Stiles' tendency to bullshit authority figures is practically innate. Maybe they hadn't bonded over anything.

They do introductions, using all the etiquette and protocol that Derek and Stiles have drilled into them. "Thank you for contacting us," Danny says. "We're worried about—"

He's cut off by the abrupt arrival of a wild-eyed guy ten-ish years his senior. "Where is he?" the guy demands. " _Where is he?_ "

"Paul!" Alpha Rachlin barks. "He's not here."

"I _smell_ him!" the guy shouts, which would answer the werewolf question even without his eyes flashing gold a second later. "I _told_ him what I would do if he showed his face here again." Which answers the question of whether Stiles was here. And raises a hell of a lot more.

Alpha Rachlin gestures at the others. "These are members of his pack, including his fiancé. They smell like Stiles, but _he_ isn't here."

"Then they can take a message to him," Paul snarls.

"Paul," Alpha Rachlin says, "go see to that downed section of fence on the southern perimeter."

"Alpha," Paul says tightly, a clear protest.

She puts her hand on his shoulder. "And then go sit with Jim for a while."

He softens. "Thanks, Mom," he says quietly and then runs down the front steps of the porch. Danny braces for another confrontation, or an "accidental" bump, but Paul aggressively ignores them, not glancing their way as he sprints southward.

Danny glances at Derek and sees the pained grimace on his face. Derek was that guy once, struggling with how to be his own person when his alpha and his mother were one and the same. If Talia had lived, would she and Derek have a relationship like Alpha Rachlin and her son, or would they have forged a different path? He'll never get to find out, and that isn't fair.

Alpha Rachlin's expression is stormy for a moment before it smooths into unreadability. "Since my husband died, Jim's been like a father to Paul. I trust you'll understand." She seems to be daring them to comment on Paul's behavior, but what comment would they make?

"Respectfully, Alpha," Derek says, and only the fact that he's a Hale lets him actually sound respectful, "we don't understand anything. Stiles' note was... less than forthcoming."

"Huh." Alpha Rachlin studies them for a moment. "Better come inside, then."

Derek surreptitiously holds up four fingers as they pass through the house. Four heartbeats. It seems fair to Danny. Outnumber the outsiders, but not aggressively. They'd do the same, if part of an unknown pack came into their territory.

Alpha Rachlin shows them into a cozy sitting room decorated with the same rough-hewn aesthetic as the outside of the building. Tea has been set out on a low log table surrounded by couches and armchairs. Alpha Rachlin sits in one of the armchairs; Danny, Kira, and Derek squish into one surprisingly comfortable couch. A woman who looks like a slightly bigger, completely balder version of Alpha Rachlin comes in, sits in the other chair, and starts pouring tea, the actions incongruously delicate in her enormous hands.

"This is my second," Alpha Rachlin says, "my younger sister Becky."

Becky snorts and keeps pouring tea. "Younger by eight minutes, and she never lets me forget it."

The alpha takes the first drink. This is both etiquette, as she's the host, and precaution, to prove that the tea isn't poisoned. There's no subtle way to check the cups, but Becky hadn't been particular about who got which one. Also, Danny feels he can trust the Rachlins, Paul's outburst notwithstanding. He gets that feeling so rarely that he usually listens to it.

Once everyone has tea (Becky's even rustled up a package of cookies), Alpha Rachlin sets her cup on the end table beside her, leans back in her chair, and sighs heavily. "Four months ago, a young man arrived at our doorstep," she begins, and Danny sets down his cup and leans forward. "We'd never met this young man, but despite his ability to mask his intentions through babbling and half-truths, he had a sincerity we did not believe could be counterfeit." She raises an eyebrow. "You understand?"

Kira smiles sadly. "Totally."

Alpha Rachlin returns the look. "Stiles, as this young man asked us to call him, was having trouble with his magic. He and his teacher had been working for several months to bring it under control but were losing the battle." She glances at Danny. "Do _you_ understand?"

He shrugs. "Enough." He vaguely remembers Stiles rambling about innate versus imposed magic, unsuitable hosts, and his theories on werewolf bite rejection. He thinks of Stiles' note, water-stained and ever-folded, the one he couldn't bring himself to send, full of half-guessed phrases like "magic is an asshole" and "a body that can't handle magic." He wonders how Stiles managed to keep this from him—from all of them. He wonders _why_.

"Stiles was up-front about his past. The proxy sacrifice to the Nemeton, the Nogitsune—all of it. But Jim, our emissary, is a good man—"

"One of the best," Becky cuts in. Her gaze jumps to a framed picture on the end table. It shows her standing beside an older white guy with twinkling blue eyes and a Santa Claus beard.

Unperturbed by the interruption, Alpha Rachlin nods. "One of the best," she agrees. "And he saw that, despite the terrible things that had happened to him, Stiles was also a good man. Magical control is one of Jim's areas of focus, and he agreed to help.

"Jim and Stiles worked together for just over three months. Siles lived in the guest room in Jim's house. He ate dinner with the pack three times a week and brunch on Sundays. We got to know him well." Alpha Rachlin smiles kindly. "He spoke often and well of his pack. You are so dear to him." With a wink at Danny she adds, "You most of all." Danny feels himself blushing.

Alpha Rachlin continues, "I'm telling you this so you understand how hurt we were by what happened. But we don't blame Stiles. Even Paul—well, he's angry, but one day he'll calm down enough to realize that it wasn't Stiles' fault."

"What _happened_?" Kira bursts out, clearly not able to stand it for another second.

Becky shakes her head. "Stiles was getting better at using his magic, but not at controlling it, which was what he needed. One night, he and Jim got in a fight. Nothing bad; nothing you wouldn't expect between any frustrated young student and their teacher. But Stiles lost control of his magic." For the briefest moment, Becky's mask slips, showing Danny a well of sadness of despair underneath. "Jim's been in a coma ever since."

"We've had doctors, witches, emissaries, anyone we can think of," Alpha Rachlin adds when her sister seems unable to go on. "No one can find a thing wrong with him, but he won't wake up."

Danny swallows hard. Jesus. He can picture it far too clearly. A pack warily agreeing to take in a stranger on their emissary's say-so. The stranger reaching the end of his patience—and accidentally lashing out. The emissary crumpling beneath the force of it—shit. No wonder Paul Rachlin's so mad at them.

"And Stiles?" Kira asks. She seems to be the only one capable of forming the questions they need answers to.

"I—" Alpha Rachlin clears her throat and seems to return to herself from a great distance. "He wanted to stay and help, to figure out what had happened and fix it. But I... I said he'd done enough already." She rubs a weary hand over her face. "He packed up his things and disappeared that night. Left a pile of cash and a note that said the aid of the Delgado Pack was at our disposal whenever we needed it. We haven't seen him since." She shakes her head. "Can't say I blame him."

Becky puts her hand over her sister's. "Betty. Alphas are allowed to have feelings."

Alpha Rachlin squeezes hard. "Yes, but we're supposed to be careful about what we _do_ with those feelings."

Danny glances at Derek, whose eyes are squeezed shut. He probably had this conversation dozens of times when he was alpha. Maybe with Stiles.

Danny forces his gaze to the Rachlins. "You have no idea where he went after he left here?" he asks.

Alpha Rachlin shakes her head. "We assumed he was heading to you."

It's a fair assumption. But since the Nogitsune, Sitles is diligent to the point of obsession about never hurting the pack. If he felt he was a danger, he would have squirreled himself away until he neutralized that danger.

"He showed up in Beacon Hills two days ago," Derek says, like a peace offering. And maybe it is. Interpack politics has always been Stiles' thing; Danny doesn't get it. For all he knows, this is an expected exchange: the Delgado pack's vulnerabilities for the Rachlin's.

"With no memories, you said?" Alpha Rachlin asks. 

"He has memories," Danny says carefully. "Some are even real."

"Ah," Alpha Rachlin says.

It sounds neutral to Danny, but Derek must pick up another signal, because he leans forward instantly. "What."

The sisters share a look. "Jim Brabrant is one of the best men alive," Becky says fiercely. "Kind, compassionate—he takes in strangers and uses his magic to heal wounded animals. He is _good_."

" _And_ ," Alpha Rachlin says, and now it looks like she's the one doing the comforting, "he lives by an old rule of magic: _Who cannot hex, cannot heal_."

Yeah, Deaton says that. Danny's never been impressed. It's always struck him as an excuse for dick behavior.

"For Jim, it meant that anyone who wasn't willing to get their hands dirty, for good or for ill, couldn't fully access their magic." Alpha Rachlin fiddles with the handle of her mug. "Becky and I have wondered if that's what happened to Jim. If he..." She clears her throat. "If while they were fighting, he tried something extreme to deal with Stiles' magic, and the magic fought back."

"But Stiles had his memories after that, right?" Kira says.

"Yes," Alpha Rachlin says. "He was fully aware of who he was and what had happened." She shakes her head. "Poor thing. It might've been a blessing if he'd forgotten."

Danny sits up, exchanging glances with Derek and Kira. A boulder the size of Mount Rainier settles in his stomach. They've been assuming that Stiles' memory loss was done _to him_. What if he did it to himself?

Danny has learned enough pack etiquette to know that he _must_ drink all the tea he was given. He slams what's left in his mug and watches in satisfaction as Kira and Derek do the same. Derek holds out his hand. "Alpha Rachlin, Ms. Rachlin, thank you for your hospitality. We appreciate your time, and the invaluable information you've given us. If the Delgado pack can ever return the favor, we're at your disposal." The words don't sound formulaic, exactly, but rote, like it's a common thing to say at the end of an interpack meeting.

Becky and Alpha Rachlin shake everyone's hands. "It was my pleasure," Alpha Rachlin says. "In spite of how things ended, I'm fond of Stiles. I hope you're able to help him."

They book out of the room. Danny faintly registers Alpha Rachlin instructing Derek to call if they have other questions. He catches a glimpse of one of the other packmembers hovering by the foot of the stairs, but he doesn't look over. He bursts outside and heads toward the driver's side door. Derek gently but firmly pushes him out of the way. "No," is all he says, and Danny's too distracted to argue.

Once they're in the car, though, Derek doesn't start the engine. He pulls out his phone and dials Lydia's number, putting the call on speaker.

"Derek?" Lydia comes on the line with her usual focus, ready to do whatever needs doing. "What did you learn? What's the next step?"

"Where's Stiles?" Danny asks before Derek can get a word in. "Are they back?"

Lydia switches gears without pausing. "He's playing poker with your parents."

Danny relaxes in ways he hasn't realized he's been tense. His parents aren't about to let Stiles wander off—and they'll do it so nicely that Stiles will barely realize he's being babysat.

"We need you to look something up in the DORP," Derek says.

In Stiles' freshman year at UO, he had two unfortunate experiences with witches in the area around campus—one where the witches _had_ been in on the supernatural, and another where they _hadn't_ , and were just the religious kind of witches. After the second encounter, Stiles had started compiling a list of who was and wasn't in the know. He named it the Database of Reliable Practitioners and gleefully calls it "DORP." Ridiculous acronym notwithstanding, it's the motherlode of information on witches and healers along the west coast, full of notes and cross-references. Its star rating system catalogues everything from level of knowledge to degree of helpfulness. It's gotten the pack out of countless scrapes over the years.

"I need everything in a..." Derek pauses, "hundred-mile radius around Galice."

"That'll take a while," Lydia says, which isn't a no.

"We've got time," Kira puts in. Danny seethes, but Derek nods.

"I'll call when I have something," Lydia promises and ends the call.

"Why are you—" Danny starts.

"Think about it," Kira says, clearly on the same page as Derek. "Stiles, or his magic, accidentally hurts someone he's close to. He's alone, scared, maybe hurt. What does he do?"

"He comes _home_ ," Danny says through gritted teeth, even though he knows it's not true.

Derek shakes his head. "Not while his magic's out of control and he's worried about hurting the pack. He lays low for a couple nights, and then he starts researching."

"Researching _what_? What would he have been looking for? What would he have found?"

Expression grim, Derek says, "A solution more extreme than Emissary Brabrant was willing to try."

Danny covers his face with his hands. Derek's right, and Danny knows he's right, and Danny _hates_ that he's right. "Fuck."

A small, warm hand lands on his arm. "Hey," Kira says. "We'll figure it out, Danny."

"And if we don't?"

Danny hears a shift of fabric against fabric that probably means Derek's shrugged. "Then we'll figure out something else," he says. "This pack's always been good at improvising."

(They haven't, though. They _do_ a lot of improvising, but that doesn't mean they're _good_ at it.)

"Uh, I hate to do this, but I'm _so hungry_ ," Kira says sheepishly. "Can we grab food while we wait?"

Danny wants to say no, wants to tell Kira not to waste their time. But she's right: for now, they can only wait. They don't need to be miserable while they do.

It takes a while, because the unincorporated community of Galice, Oregon, is hardly a hotbed of haute cuisine. But Danny's phone finally leads them to a hotel with a halfway decent restaurant. Kira, bless her, tries to restart the conversation. She starts with the Rachlin packhouse, which appeals to Derek's inner architecture nerd. Then she tries the incidence of multiple births among born werewolves, and Danny tries not to think about how Stiles would've geeked out with her about that.

After their food is delivered, Kira grabs her burger and says, "So what's in Fairvale?"

Danny glances up from wrangling a lettuce leaf back into his club sandwich. "What do you mean?"

Kira shrugs and takes a huge bite, leaving Danny and Derek dangling while she chews and swallows. "Like... the best paintball in northern California or the Batman museum."

"Burbank," Derek and Danny say automatically. Kira laughs so hard Danny worries she'll choke.

Danny says, "I'm not sure Stiles has even been to Fairvale since a bunch of us got stranded there because of a postponed cross-country meet our junior year." He grimaces. "And that was a bad night, so the place has no sentimental value to us."

Kira frowns. "Huh. Weird that he thinks he lives there, then." She shrugs and goes back to her lunch.

Danny drops his sandwich on the plate. He lunges over the table and gives Kira's cheek a smacking kiss. "Kira, you're a genius," he announces before wiping his hands on his napkin and yanking his phone out of his pocket. He sets it on the table and puts it on speaker.

"Lydia," he says when the call connects, "never mind Galice."

"Oh, thank fuck," Lydia says. "Because there is _nothing_ in the database. I was about to expand to two hundred miles, but that starts to bump into suburban Portland, and that would be a goddamn nightmare. What do you need instead?"

"Fairvale. Anything you've got in Fairvale."

"Shit," Lydia mutters, and Danny hears her typing. "Why the hell didn't I think of that before? You're a genius."

"Kira thought of it."

"I did?" Kira asks.

"Well, Kira's one of the few real damn adults around here." Lydia moves her mouth away from the phone but doesn't bother covering the mouthpiece when she hollers, " _SCOTT_!" Across the table, Derek winces.

"Is that Danny?" Scott calls. "Hi, Danny! What did you find? What's Alpha Rachlin like? Does she remember Stiles?"

"Scott," Lydia says, "what was the address of the place you and Stiles went in Fairvale? Where Stiles thought he lived."

"Oh. Uh, hang on. Put it in my phone." After a brief pause, Scott says, "137 Coronado Place."

Lydia types more and then says, "Mother of a bastard," and this may be the most times Danny's heard her swear in a single conversation. "137 Coronado Place is a metaphysical shop called The Amber Teardrop. Four or five stars in every category."

Derek is signalling their server, calling for to-go boxes and the check. Danny wakes up his phone to check the time. His lock screen is one of his and Stiles' engagement pictures. "Hold on," he tells the Stiles in the picture (and the Danny, too). "We're so close."

*

The Amber Teardrop is behind the Trader Joe's. It looks like most other occult and metaphysical shop in California. But the instant they walk in the door, Danny suspects it's different. If this place has real magic, Kira and Derek can feel it, but Danny trusts his ordinary senses, and they show him a store that is not messing around.

He sees no cutesy baggies of stones and herbs, claiming this one's a "love spell" and this one a "harmony spell." The rocks and crystals sit in trays so you can touch them and find the right one, and they're only labeled with their names, on the assumption that anyone who needs one knows what it's for. The herbs are in bulk jars behind the counter, though if Amber Teardrop is like other stores Danny's been in, that's more to avoid spills than out of safety concerns.

The bookshelves are sparse. As Stiles once explained, "fifty percent of what's out there is bullshit, and fifty percent of what's left you already have by the time you walk through the door of a place like this." But from rare first editions to mass-produced third- and fourth-hand volumes, what makes these books valuable are the notes left by previous owners. People who only want to buy new don't understand that and aren't "their" kind of witches.

The store has wooden blanks and wood-burning tools but no rune sets. It has a bin of cloth bags to hold Tarot cards but few decks. In short, this is a place for people who know that any magical tool worth its salt is either crafted by your own hands or gifted to you with loving intent, and that anything that rolled off an assembly line into plastic bags pre-stamped with pentacles and triple moons might help you find your spiritual center but will not, for instance, help you access your fiancé's locked memories.

Also, the music is blues, not Enya or some other New Age pabulum, which is a good sign.

They approach the counter, where a clerk their age with light brown skin and a mass of brown hair piled messily on top of their head is singing along with Robert Johnson. They stop singing as the others approach, but Danny sees from the sway of their hips that they're still dancing.

"Hi," they say, "welcome to Amber Teardrop. How can I help you today?" They're wearing jeans and a black turtleneck under a red vest with a white "they/them" button pinned to it. Their earrings are red and black beads with key charms at the end—Eshu, Danny thinks—and their necklace says _Amber_ in flowing silver cursive.

"Hi, Amber," Kira says, taking point because she's the only one with the capacity to be nice right now. "Is this your shop?" 

Amber smiles enigmatically. "More like I am the shop's, but, yes."

"Great! Well, I'm Kira; this is Danny and Derek. Our friend—well, Danny's fiancé—well, they're definitely friends, too— _anyway_ , he bought spell components here a while ago, and we need to know what they are."

Amber's customer service smile is _very_ customer servicey. "All sales at Amber Teardrop are one-hundred percent confidential," they say. "If you'd like to know what was in your friend's spell, I recommend asking him."

"Normally, I would," Kira says. "Unfortunately, the spell took away a lot of his memories and left fake ones in their place. He doesn't remember casting the spell, so he can't tell us what was in it or how to undo it."

Amber's smile is practically a mask. "I'm sorry to hear that. Purchasers of spell components sign an anti-indemnity agreement in case of—"

" _Indemnity_?" Kira squawks. "We don't want to sue you! We just need to know what was in the spell."

"I understand. But as I said, The Amber Teardrop holds customer confidentiality in strictest regard—"

"Okay, no," Derek says. He and Kira do that thing that Danny swears they practice, where they flash their eyes at the same time. "A member of our pack bought ingredients from you. Now he can't remember anyone or anything connected with the supernatural. You're going to tell us what you sold him, okay?"

Amber flinches. Their expression is flinty as they pull a laptop across the counter. "When was your friend here?" they ask grudgingly.

"We're not sure exactly," Danny admits. "No later than Friday. No earlier than a month ago."

"A _month_?" Amber shakes their head. "No. No way." They switch windows on the laptop and start typing rapidly. "Okay, let's try it another way. What's his name?"

"Stilinski," Danny says. "His credit card would've said 'Mieczysław,' but he would've insisted that you call him Stiles."

Amber's face falls, and Danny _hates_ being right about this. "We _loved_ Stiles." Their fingers fly over the keyboard. "Here. Three weeks ago." They glance up. "His memories are missing? That doesn't make sense. He bought ingredients for a banishing spell."

Danny tries not to sigh. This isn't Amber's fault. " _Did_ he? Or did he _say_ he wanted ingredients for a banishing spell and then distract you with charm and babble so you didn't notice that he was getting ingredients for something else?" Kira and Derek groan.

"No, no," Amber insists. "These are standard banishing spell ingredients. Kind of boring, act—" They freeze. "Oh, _no_."

"Don't worry," Kira says, touching Amber's hand. "He's done it to all of us. Even Danny."

"So what is it," Derek asks, "if it isn't a banishing spell?"

"It _is_ , though, is the thing," Amber says. "There are two types of banishing spells, right?" At the pack's blank looks, they continue, "One is... spiritual, I guess. Banishing negative energy, bad moods, stuff like that. They're super New Agey hippy-dippy, but we all use them, because who doesn't have bad days, yeah? The other kind is strictly professionals only. You use them to banish demons, brownie infestations, that kind of thing. They have a lot of the same ingredients and a couple major differences. Stiles said he wanted the first kind and bought ingredients for the second."

Danny feels more confused. Why would Stiles have needed a banishing spell? Unless... unless he'd found out that his lack of magical control was due to yet another demonic possession. Danny's stomach curdles.

"What's this?" Derek asks, pointing to the screen. Danny hadn't noticed him going around (or, knowing Derek, over) the counter, and from the way Amber jumps, neither had they.

Amber recovers quickly and waves Derek off. "Separate purchase."

"He came back?" Kira asks, brow creased.

"No, same visit. But if someone tells us what spell they're doing, we group the ingredients for it together and note their other purchases separately."

Derek looks at Danny. Danny shakes his head. Stiles came here in a crisis, at the peak of desperation. Picking up unrelated ingredients would've been the magical equivalent of stopping for milk and eggs while his Jeep was on fire.

"What are they for?" Derek asks.

"Well, this one's for magic," Amber says. Derek gives them classic Derek Hale judgy eyebrows, and they huff. "Like, boosting magical power, that sort of thing. This other one helps with grief, loss, memory stuff." _Oh shit,_ Danny thinks, and then, "Oh, shit," Amber says. "Uh, hang on, okay? I gotta—" They head for the back room and then add, "This might take a while. Make yourselves comfortable. And if someone could flip the sign to closed, that'd be great."

Danny startles. Is it that late? Well, he supposes—four hours to Galice, just shy of an hour with the Rachlin pack, half an hour at the restaurant, four hours to Fairvale—it's just past seven. Amber Teardrop closes at eight on Mondays. Danny calls, "We can come back after you close." The delay makes him itch, but this store is Amber's livelihood, and he wants to respect that.

"It's okay," they call. "My regulars understand that sometimes usual hours get interrupted for magical emergencies."

In the back corner of the store, Kira finds four chairs around a low table, and they settle in to wait. Derek pops up after a few minutes to browse the bookshelves but returns quickly, scowling and muttering about most of them being in Latin. Danny keeps picking up his phone and waking it up, only to put it down when he remembers that his texts won't be full of Stiles' stream-of-consciousness ramblings or dozens of links from his research rabbit holes. Only Kira seems calm, and Danny wishes he could ask her how she does it, but he doesn't want to ruin it for her.

In the end, Amber's gone for less than ten minutes, and it feels like ten hours. Derek's on his phone, probably playing his epic, intercontinental game of Words with Friends with Cora. Kira's fallen asleep. Amber has a haunted look in their eyes and a large, ancient-looking book open against their chest.

"Uh oh," Danny says.

" _Alligatura ordinaria_ ," Amber says.

Kira snorts awake with a half-shouted, "Alligators!" She looks around sheepishly. "Sorry."

Amber smiles faintly. "Not alligators, although that would be way cool. _Alligatura ordinaria_ is... well, the best translation I can come up with is 'ordinary binding.'" Danny swallows. He does _not_ like the sound of that. "It removes imposed magic and all memory of it having been there."

And, yeah, that's worse than Danny thought. It makes a horrifying sense, though. If you take away someone's magic, you also want to take their memory of having had it, or they'll just get it back and come after you.

"So if Stiles used that spell—" Kira starts.

"On _himself_?" Amber says, horrified.

They all look up. "Yeah?" Derek says. "That's our working theory."

"I..." Amber sinks into the last chair at the table. "Is that possible?"

Kira puts a hand on their arm. "You're the witch. You tell us."

"I... I mean, I don't—you could try, but the magic would fight you so hard. I've never—" They shake their head. "I'm not sure."

Danny wakes up his phone and swipes to the contacts. "Let me check with someone who might be."

Deaton picks up on the second ring. "Mr. Mahealani. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Good evening, Dr. Deaton. You're on speaker."

"All right."

" _Alligatura ordinaria_ ," Danny says. "Have you heard of it?"

The pause is so brief that Danny would've missed it if he'd been listening less intently. "Where did you hear about that?"

A game of questions. Danny can work with that. "Could a person cast it on themself?"

"Why would anyone want to?"

"Are there high odds of things going wrong?"

"What would be the consequences of that, do you think?"

"Is there an antidote?"

"Are you in need of one?"

"Can we come by in an hour?"

"Don't you need dinner and a good night's sleep first?"

"Thanks, Doc." Danny grins as he hangs up and then dials Scott. "Are you with Stiles?"

"Yeah," Scott says, and then adds in what he probably thinks is a quiet voice, "he's depressed."

"I know," Danny says gently. "Deaton's making an antidote. Can you be at the clinic right before it opens tomorrow?"

Scott perks up instantly. "Sure! Thanks, Danny. Are you okay?"

Danny sighs. "It's been... a day."

" _Chyeah_ ," Scott says. "See you tomorrow."

Danny hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket. Eventually he'll have to call Noah, because he knows what will happen if they don't give the guy a heads up that his son's getting his memories back. But Deaton's right about one thing: they need food and sleep.

Kira and Derek are getting their things together. Amber looks like they've been slapped with a fish. "Where's good to eat around here?" Danny asks.

"What. The fuck. Was that?" Amber demands.

Danny shrugs. "A person _can_ cast _Alligatura ordinaria_ on themself, but hardly anyone does, because it has a high likelihood of going wrong, which is most probably what happened to Stiles. Deaton can make an antidote, but it has to do its thing overnight. We’ll go to his clinic tomorrow morning so he can give it to Stiles."

Amber throws up their hands. "How did you get _that_ out of that conversation?"

"You learn to read between the lines," Derek says.

"That's absurd."

"Yeah," Danny agrees.

"Come with us!" Kira says, grabbing Amber's hands. "You can meet everyone."

Amber shakes their head. "No one wants to meet the witch who did this to their packmate."

"What? No way!" Kira sounds appalled. " _Stiles_ did this to Stiles. _Believe_ me, we get that."

"Might be good to have another magic-user around in case Deaton tries to blow smoke up our asses," Derek adds.

"I... I don't know what that _was_ ," Amber says, but they're giving Kira their number, presumably so Kira can send them directions to the clinic (among other things. If Amber and Kira don't go on at least one date, Danny will eat Stiles' hat). "Alan Deaton is a legend in local magic circles, but he's... kind of a jerk, isn't he?"

Danny laughs. "A bit. But so is Stiles, so they're perfect for each other."

As they say goodnight to Amber and head toward the car, Danny feels like he's floating. He's trying not to get his hopes up. The odds are high that the antidote won't work. The odds are lower but not zero that it'll turn out Stiles wiped his memories on purpose, and that he'll be furious with the others—with _Danny_ —for restoring them.

He can't convince his heart to care. This is the most hope they've had since the day Stiles disappeared. Eventually, cold pragmatism will reassert itself. But now he feels warm and light, and he'll cling to that for as long as he can.

*

Stiles can't sleep. He's been trying for an hour, but the anticipation buzzing in everyone else keeps yanking him awake. Stiles doesn't know what it's about, except that tomorrow morning they're seeing the doctor—the _vet_ —who examined him when he showed up. He's not wild about that, but he's also pretty sure a guard is posted at every door. And possibly the windows. He's not escaping this.

He's preparing to give up and go find a television when he hears a light tap at the door. Frowning, he gets out of bed and pads across the room. He opens the door a crack and sees Danny on the other side, rubbing his neck and looking awkward. "Hi?" Stiles says.

"Hey," Danny says. "Can I—I need to grab a book. I'll just be a second."

Stiles opens the door wider and stands aside. "Your house, dude."

"Not really," Danny says with a slight laugh. He shuffles over to the bookcase. He looks like ten miles of bad road. Dude's aged five years since Stiles showed up. He grabs a book—another enormous, ancient-looking thing; what the hell is he into that he's got so many books like this?—but then he just stands there, clutching it and swaying on his feet.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Stiles says, pulling the armchair away from the wall and angling it toward Danny, "sit down before you fall down."

Danny blinks furiously and shakes his head, trying to wake up. "I shouldn't—I should go—"

"You should not," Stiles insists. He has no idea where he came up with this deep well of fucks to give about this guy. "Sit." He leans over and turns on the lamp on the end table. "You have an honest-to-fuck reading nook here. So just... read, wouldja?"

Danny shuffles over to the reading nook, sinking into the chair with the grunt of a man three times his age. "Read, wouldja," he murmurs as he opens his book.

"Shut up," Stiles mutters, his face going hot as he slinks to the bed. He climbs in and goes back to dinking around with the phone they've decided to let him keep now that they no longer consider him a flight risk. It's an older model, and they've removed the most useful apps—and his ability to reinstall them—but it has halfway decent games, including a word scrambler he's keeping himself entertained with. He pays Danny no mind until a soft sound catches his attention. Danny's asleep, head tilted at a painful-looking angle, giant book squishing his chest, quiet snores drifting out of his mouth. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Danny." And then louder when that accomplishes nothing, " _Hey, Danny_."

Danny doesn't so much as twitch. Stiles finds a piece of paper in the nightstand, balls it up, and lobs it at Danny. It bounces off his forehead, and he jerks upright with a snort. Stiles snickers as Danny glares and rubs his head.

"Dude, go to bed," Stiles says. "I'm getting a crick in my neck just looking at you."

Danny rolls his eyes. "Then don't look at me." He yawns and scratches at his stomach. Stiles swallows. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I should go to bed."

Stiles bites his lips and makes one of the split-second bad decisions he's famous for. He flips the covers down. "Or you could climb in with me."

Danny stills. "Wow, that is _the worst_ idea."

"Or is it the best?" Stiles asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Danny huffs a soft laugh. "Yeah, no, definitely the worst." But he makes no move toward the door.

"Your bed's _so far away_ ," Stiles wheedles.

Danny shakes his head. "It's literally down the hall."

"Yeah. _All the way_ down the hall. Come on, dude. We're _engaged_. We live together. Sharing a bed's nothing new, right?"

"Oh, so _now_ it's 'we,' huh?" Danny's mouth is set in a thin line, and Stiles is sure he's gone too far. Then Danny sighs, pushes himself out of the chair, and collapses into the bed. "Yeah," he sighs, staring at the ceiling, "the worst idea."

Stiles cackles and then tamps it down, remembering that the elder Mahealanis are probably asleep. "Get some rest, boo," he tells Danny. "Big day tomorrow, I'm told."

Danny snorts. "Oh, no. I'm wide awake now."

"Really?" Stiles peers at Danny in the wan light of his phone screen. He looks pretty fucking tense. Stiles hadn't expected their proximity to have such an impact on the dude. 

" _Really_ ," Danny says tersely. 

The phone screen turns off. The nearest street light is two houses down, and the moon is new. They're in deep darkness. 

"Let's play a game," Stiles says suddenly, trying to break the tension. 

He swears he can feel Danny's judgmental stare. "Any game we can play in bed is a game I _don't_ want to play with you."

"Not like _that_. Like…" Stiles bites his lip. "Oh! I'll ask you questions about your life with the other me."

Danny's worry for a long beat and then asks, skeptically, "That's it?"

"Yeah!" Stiles says, warming to the idea. "I have _so_ many questions, dude; you don't even know."

Danny chuckles. "I can make a guess." He's silent for a shorter beat and then says, "Okay. If I can ask you questions about your life, too."

Stiles' stomach lurches, but he supposes fair is fair. "All right."

Stiles' eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough to see Danny bite his lip. "What happens if you ask a question I can't answer?"

Stiles is startled when what comes out of his mouth is "I get to kiss you." He should take it back. He's an asshole, but he tries not to be _cruel_. "Not, like, porny liplock!" he hastily adds and then wonders why the hell he said that. "I promise to be chaste and decorous." Is this how Danny's Stiles talks, because it's disgusting.

Danny stares at the ceiling. Then he mutters, "You're the biggest fool on this blue marble, Mahealani," and turns to Stiles. "Okay, but if I tell you to stop, you _stop_ , or I'm putting you out on the street. I don't care that you'll run to Fairvale."

Stiles nods. "Totally fair, dude."

"And if _you_ won't answer a question," Danny adds, "then _I_ tell _you_."

Stiles frowns. "Tell me what?"

"How it happened."

Stiles' stomach sinks clear to his shoes. That does _not_ sound fun. He debates saying he's changed his mind, calling off the game and kicking Danny out of the bed. But never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski isn't one of the most competitive mofos around. He got himself into this, and he'll be damned if he backs down. " _Great_ ," he says through gritted teeth. "Who goes first?"

Danny waves a hand magnanimously. "You can."

"How long have you been together?" Stiles asks.

"Since our sophomore year of college," Danny replies. "Beginning of spring term. How long have you lived in Fairvale?"

Stiles has to think about that, which is weird. "Uh... a year? Give or take. Who asked who out?"

Danny laughs softly. "Both of us. You made a move, but there'd been a miscommunication, and you thought I was only offering a one-night-stand. I was the one who asked you on a real date. Where were you before Fairvale?"

Stiles waves his hand. "I mean, besides Eugene, for school? I hopped around. Beacon Valley, Beacon Heights—made it to Shasta for a few months a couple years ago. Okay, what is it about him? I mean, you're one of the nicest guys I've ever met, and you're _so hot,_ and he's, like—I mean, as far as I can tell, he's like me, only... _softer_."

"Pass," Danny says, voice flinty.

Stiles hesitates, but rules are rules. He swoops over and plants a quick peck on Danny's cheek. Danny breathes in sharply. Stiles retreats to his side of the bed. "Your turn," he says, not liking how subdued his voice sounds.

"Favorite color," Danny says, which Stiles is _sure_ isn't what he'd been planning to ask before. Chicken.

"Red. Favorite sport."

"To watch? Baseball. To play? Lacrosse." Stiles groans. He's forgotten what a devoted following The Sport of Douches has in Beacon Hills. Danny pauses so long Stiles wonders if he's fallen asleep. Then he says, "You have a scar on your left shoulder. Where did it come from?"

Stiles hesitates but then says, "Pass." Damned if he'll admit that he's wondered the same thing.

"In seventh grade," Danny says, "you and Scott went through this phase of recreating _Mythbusters_ experiments. Something blew up. Scott had a cast on his arm for six weeks, and you ended up with that scar. Your parents were so mad you're both technically still grounded."

Stiles laughs, but his gut is roiling. It sounds like a simple, happy-go-lucky story. But by the time he was in seventh grade, he was living with Heather and her parents, only interacting with them and his teachers. Listening to a story about having this life instead, with parents and friends and silly experiments gone wrong, makes him feel like someone's pulled a brick out of his foundation.

They retreat into frivolous questions about candy and music. Danny answers easily when Stiles asks about his first boyfriend, but when Stiles follows up by asking about his first crush, Danny passes, and Stiles, feeling bolder, kisses his lips—quick and closed-mouthed, but pushing it.

" _Stiles,_ " Danny warns, but he doesn't say no, so the game's still on. "Why here?" Danny asks. "When you came into town? You would've passed a gas station and a pharmacy. Why walk all the way to this house?"

"Oh, who fucking knows?" Stiles snaps.

He's clearly given the wrong answer, because Danny shoots back, "Because you feel safe here. After we started dating, we spent more time here than anywhere else, even your house, because your dad was so pissed at me. From the end of town you came in from, this was closer than our apartment, so you came here. Because you _remember_ , on some level."

"Your mom—"

"You don't think you've seen her since she taught you fifth grade science, Stiles! How the hell would that lead you to knowing where she lives well enough to walk here when you were dead on your feet, thinking you haven't been in Beacon Hills since you were sixteen?"

"It's not your turn," Stiles says grimly.

"Yeah, okay," Danny says, voice rough.

"I don't know you. I don't remember this life you say I've had. What the hell makes you so sure I'm _your_ Stiles?"

Even in the darkness, Stiles can tell that Danny looks anguished. "Stiles," he says unhappily, "I _can't_ tell you that."

Ramped up from the last question, Stiles _lunges_ at Danny, kissing for all he's worth. He keeps his mouth mostly shut, but he knows how to kiss dirty even when tongues aren't involved, and he throws every trick into this one. Danny melts into it, but when Stiles risks grabbing one of those glorious biceps, Danny shoves him away. " _Stop_."

Stiles pulls away, panting. Danny's out of the bed, grabbing the giant book and heading for the door. "Danny," Stiles says weakly, not sure what to say but aware he's cocked it up this time.

"Good night, Stiles," Danny says. He sounds devastated, and Stiles swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. "Get some sleep. Early start tomorrow."

"Sure," Stiles manages to say. Then Danny's gone, and the solitude of the room feels vaster and deeper than it was before. Stiles lies in bed staring at the ceiling, certain he won't get another wink of sleep. When he finally drifts off, in the faint light of false dawn, he dreams of monsters with glowing eyes, and of Santa Claus falling, falling, falling toward the ground but never reaching it, while Stiles never reaches _him_.

*

"Here." Something solid hits the table next to Danny's head. "This might help."

This is not Danny's finest moment. He's face-down at his parents' kitchen table, sweatshirt hood pulled down as far as it goes, one arm wrapped around his head to form a cave around himself. He reaches his other hand out cautiously, and it makes contact with the handle of a mug. He pulls it into his cave and slurps at it as best he can without raising his head. It's coffee with a dash of cocoa powder—a long-time go-to for shitty mornings.

"Thanks, Papa," he says. His voice sounds like gravel.

Papa chuckles. "Rough night, huh?"

Danny groans. "Emotional hangovers are worse than normal ones."

"Mmm," Papa says sympathetically. "All the headache the morning after; none of the fun the night before."

"And no hair of the dog or greasy breakfast food can fix _that_ headache," Mama adds sunnily. It says a lot about Danny's current state of mind that he hadn't heard her come into the room.

Danny raises his face enough to glare at her, and she beams at him. He snorts and drinks more coffee. 

"But it'll be better soon, right?" she says, voice more subdued. 

Danny lifts his head up but keeps his gaze on his mug as he says, "What if it doesn't work?"

"Ah," Papa says. He pauses. "Your mother and I love Stiles. He's a wonderful young man. But our priority is you. Whatever you decide, whatever you need, we'll support you."

Danny doesn't want to hear that. He wants to hear that Deaton's cure can't fail, or that if it does, _of course_ Danny and Stiles will find a way to rebuild. 

But this is the truth, and maybe that's what Danny _needs_ to hear.

*

It doesn't stop being weird. Stiles doesn't care how many people vouch for him how many times; Dr. Deaton is a vet, and Stiles is a human, and it's _weird_.

Danny's with him, as are Scott, Lydia, Derek, and Kira. Parrish is on-shift, but Sheriff Noah has come, as has someone named Amber, whose presence hasn't been explained to him, and an older, dark-haired woman who introduces herself as Melissa, says she's Scott's mom, and seems massively pissed that no one called her when Stiles showed up.

"For Christ's sake, Mel, you and Chris were on your _honeymoon_ ," Sheriff Noah says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Which we only went on because you promised to call the _second_ there was a development." She gestures at Stiles.

Stiles isn't sure he likes being called _a development_ , but he gets it. These people think he's been missing for a long time. He might be worried about him, too.

"We handled it," Sheriff Noah insists.

"Oh, did you?" Melissa asks. "Who examined him when he got to the Mahealanis'?"

"Deaton," Sheriff Noah says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Mm-hmm," Melissa says. "And what human medical professional was also present?"

Sheriff Noah looks like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew. "There wasn't time to—"

"There are _rules_ , Noah," Melissa says sharply, "and they're there for a reason. We didn't establish them for giggles."

Sheriff Noah holds his hand out, palm up, toward Stiles. "My son was back, and—"

"And I promised you and Claudia that I'd help keep him safe. I can't do that if you don't let me."

Stiles flinches, but it barely hurts by this point. _Of course_ the guy everyone swears is Stiles' dad, and who has the same name as his dead father, had a wife with the same name as Stiles' dead mom. Of course the universe is that cruel.

"You okay?" Danny asks quietly. He's being so good to Stiles today. Stiles hates it. He's starting to think he could really get into the kind of relationship Danny's offering, but it's not _for_ him. He's not this guy's Stiles.

Stiles wraps his arms around himself. The clinic is cold. "I want this to be over," he confesses. He's not sure what he means by "this." 

Scott, Deaton, and Lydia enter the room last. Stiles can't hear what Deaton's saying, but it's pissing Lydia off; she's _sharp_ in a way that feels familiar to Stiles, though he can't say why.

Deaton walks up to Stiles. He's carrying a white mug with the clinic's logo in dark blue. He holds it out to Stiles, but tipped toward himself so Stiles can't get a good look at what's in it. "Stiles, this mug contains something that will help you regain your memories. I'd like you to drink it."

"No!" Stiles exclaims.

Deaton's face takes on a pinched expression. "I can assure you it's safe. I made it myself."

"Oh, in that case, _fuck no_."

"For fuck's sake," Derek growls from the couch where he, Kira, and Amber are camped out, "you can't walk up to him and tell him to drink something. That doesn't even work on normal Stiles."

"Also, where's my ingredient list?" Melissa asks.

"Melissa," Deaton says, _so_ patronizingly, "I assure you, we don't need—"

"You signed an agreement, Alan," Melissa says flintily.

"That I consider wholly unnecessary," Deaton replies, suddenly pissy.

"You were, and continue to be, outvoted," Melissa says. "Stop being a condescending asshat and give me an ingredient list, or you can pour whatever's in that mug right down the drain."

"Holy shit marry me," Stiles blurts, staring at Melissa with wide eyes.

The sheriff rubs his temples. "Jesus, kid."

"Nice to see Stiles' crush on Melissa is still intact," Derek says.

"I don't know," Kira says. "Is it weirder now? It feels weirder now."

Lydia snaps her fingers at Deaton. "Less whining, more writing, please."

Deaton glares at her, but he sets the mug on a counter and pulls a prescription pad and pen from his lab coat pocket. He scribbles for a minute and all but throws the paper at Melissa. "Will this do?"

She smiles sweetly at him. "Wonderful, Alan, thank you," she says in a voice dripping saccharine. She scrutinizes the list for a long time before setting it down with a sigh. "I don't love these ingredients, but I see the point of them, and none of them are dangerous." She turns to Stiles. "I won't tell you to drink it or not. But I promise that nothing in it will hurt you."

On one hand, that sounds exactly like someone in a cult might say. On the other hand, he feels like he can trust Melissa. Not fully, but a little. Still... He holds out his hand for the paper she's holding. "What's in it?"

And Melissa... _hesitates_. Pulls the paper farther out of Stiles' reach. "You wouldn't recognize most of the ingredients," she says, not seeming to notice or care that the flimsy trust he'd had in her is now dust on the floor.

"Then I'm not drinking it," Stiles says. He hops off the counter and starts toward the door, calculating who he needs to neutralize to get out of the room.

Lydia plants herself in front of him. "Stiles," she says, and then stops.

" _What_?" he demands. His feet literally itch to carry him out of here.

She glances at Danny. "Do you trust me?"

"Always," Danny says instantly.

Lydia nods. "Okay, Stiles, I'm offering you a deal. Drink the goop. If it doesn't work, we'll let you leave. Go back to Fairvale; go somewhere else; we won't stop you, and we won't follow you."

"Now wait a minute—" Sheriff Noah starts. Lydia holds up her hand.

"What if it does work?" he asks. 

Lydia smiles. "If it works, you'll remember us. And then I hope you'll want to stay."

Stiles weighs the options. This could be a trap, of course. Promise him freedom and offer him—what, death? No, there would have been far easier ways to kill him if they'd wanted to, which is a sobering thought. It might be a drug to make him forget his old life, or care less about it, to make him less eager to escape or more suggestible to the memories they think he should have. Punishment for his earlier attempt, or wanting him to be less of a bother to them.

But he can't keep sitting around Beacon Hills doing nothing. That way madness lies, or however that goes. Better to take the risk and hope that Lydia's a woman of her word.

"Give me the goop." He doesn't add empty threats about what he'll do if they don't let him leave after. His hasty escape attempt earlier has led them to underestimate his competence. That works to his advantage.

Deaton holds out the mug. "Drink it all, as quickly as you can, but you don't have to chug."

Stiles takes the mug and starts to drink the most disgusting fluid a human could concoct. It's thick and slow like cold maple syrup and tastes like hot tar smells, with an aftertaste of rancid almonds. Stiles is damned glad the mug is only half full, because he couldn't drink a drop more. 

Stiles gags. "Shit, Doc, did you make it taste this gross on purpose?" He wouldn't put it past the guy. When Scott started working here, he snuck Stiles in a bunch of times after hours to play with the puppies, though Deaton told him not to. The last time, he coated the kennel doors with this powdered pigment that coated their hands without their realizing it, so they'd left charcoal-colored handprints on everything they touched—including the dogs.

"Oh, _shit_. Scotty!" Stiles drops the mug. It doesn't hit the ground, which Stiles should maybe find weird, but he's busy pulling his best friend since kindergarten into their biggest hug _ever_. They cling to each other, eyes leaking on each other a little, Scott burying his face in the crook of Stiles' neck and.... sniffing him? Okay, weird. No one breaks them up, which annoys Stiles a little, because he knows what people would say if he and Danny—

" _Danny_ ," Stiles gasps. He wrenches out of Scott's arms with an apologetic grimace, but Scott beams and shoves him toward Danny. Danny's _right there_ , pulling Stiles into a kiss that's Parental Guidance Suggested, if not Mature Audiences Only. Stiles grabs at him—his shoulders, his biceps, his glorious, glorious ass. "I love you," Stiles mutters between kisses. "How did I forget you? I can't believe I forgot you."

"It's okay," Danny murmurs. "I've got you. I love you, too."

Stiles laughs brokenly. "I can't believe I thought you were _Kimmy_."

Danny draws back and stares at him. "What?"

Stiles laughs again and shrugs. "I remembered that Mrs. Mahealani had a daughter, not a son. But when I woke up, there you were, and no Kimmy—oh! Because she's at college in Ohio! But I didn't remember that, and I thought..."

"That the person you knew as Kimmy was trans and had become… me."

Stiles hears scoffing behind them, but Danny looks mildly impressed that Stiles had drawn that conclusion. "See?" Stiles says. "You _get_ me." And because Danny _does_ get him, and Stiles knows that now (again), he has to launch himself at Danny for another kiss. And another and another while he's at it, and, wow, this must be pissing off his dad, and—

Stiles rips himself reluctantly away from Danny. "Hold that thought?"

Danny laughs. "I'm not going _anywhere_ ," he promises, squeezing Stiles' hands.

Stiles lets go and turns to look for his dad, who's standing next to Melissa—hey! Melissa!—on the other side of the room. Stiles staggers over to him. "Hey, Dad," he whispers.

Dad gives a wobbly smile as tears streak unchecked down his cheeks. "Hey, son." He crushes Stiles to him. One hand goes to the back of his neck and squeezes—too hard, but what the hell ever; Stiles is hugging back so hard he might bruise ribs. They'll have a lot to say to each other later, but for now they hold on too tightly and try not to think how close they came to losing each other.

The others give them space. Most of them know what it's like to hold all the harder to the ones you have left when you've lost someone dear. Derek especially is probably keeping the others at bay.

"Oh, hey! Derek!" Stiles twists gently out of his dad's arms. "Come get some Stilinski love!" Derek tries to look like there's literally nothing he would hate more, but Stiles sees the twinkle in his eyes as he lets himself be hugged.

It goes on like this for several minutes. Something reminds Stiles of another person in the room, and suddenly, _wham!_ , here come _all_ his memories of that person. And not just the people, but the places he's been with them—the high school; the planetarium where he and Danny had their first date; the cemetery where his mom is buried and the Hales have their memorial. He guesses it's better than everything coming back at once, but this way is constant and seemingly never-ending.

Some of it sucks—Heather didn't go missing; she died, gruesomely. He remembers the Hale fire, and figuring out that Allison's aunt started it, and then he remembers Allison, and that she's dead, too—it's overloading his poor brain.

By the time he's done hugging Kira, he feels like he could sleep for a month—except for how he never wants to sleep again, so he doesn't miss anything.

Stiles flops on top of Kira, who makes a surprised noise but doesn't shove him off. He looks around her at the last person in the room, who's sitting on the bench next to her. "Your name is Amber," he says.

Amber raises an eyebrow, looking equal parts amused and confused. "That's right."

Stiles frowns. "I don't know you. But I know your name." He takes in how close they're sitting to Kira and guesses, "Are you and Kira dating?"

"What? No!" Amber and Kira say in unison, with a classic blushing jump-apart. Okay, not dating _yet_. Cool.

Everyone else is way closer all of a sudden. "Stiles," Danny says, "you don't remember Amber?"

"Should I?" Stiles shakes his head and looks at them. "Well, I mean, obviously I should; I know your name." He squints. "I'm picturing a store. Do you work in a store? A bookstore, maybe?"

Panicked looks go around the room. Lydia, as always the most collected of the bunch, says, "Stiles, please tell us everything you know about Derek."

Derek glares at her, hating to be the center of attention. Stiles beams. "Derek Sean Hale, former captain of the Beacon High basketball team, current freelance translator of _staggeringly_ boring technical manuals. Bad taste in women; excellent taste in leather. Likes include strawberry ice cream, books older than this great nation, and judging people with his eyebrows. Dislikes include all things carbonated—weirdo—loud people invading his space, and political lawn signs left out for more than a week after the election."

"It's tacky," Derek mutters, glaring at his shoes. "If your candidate won, you look smug; if they lost, you look like a sore loser."

"Anything... else?" Kira asks.

Stiles shrugs. "I mean, yeah, lots of things, but we made a pact never to speak of how I found out where his second tattoo is."

Derek's face turns immediately and gratifyingly red, but he looks nonplussed, and so does everyone else.

"What?" Stiles demands. "Am I _wrong_?"

"No, you're not," Kira says slowly, "but..." She trails off and looks around the room, maybe hoping someone else will finish the sentence for her.

"Stiles," Danny says gently, "how did Heather die?"

Several people's gazes whip toward Danny, like Stiles isn't the only one who _can't fucking believe_ he would ask that. But then Lydia nods and concedes, "That's... not a bad choice."

"Well, _dear,_ " Stiles snaps, "it turns out the sweet, gentle English teacher we all liked so much, especially Derek, was a serial killer who thought killing a bunch of people in gross, ritualized ways would, I think, bring her ex-girlfriend back to her? She was literally psychotic; presenting a coherent motivation for her killings wasn't high on her priority list."

More panicky looks zip past. Dr. Deaton steps up to Stiles. "May I?" he asks and then adds, his smile _not_ reassuring, "Nothing invasive, I promise."

Stiles glances at Danny, who nods. Stiles shrugs. "Sure, whatever."

Deaton shines a penlight in Stiles' eyes and then draws a bunch of shapes on the air. Stiles tries to track them, assuming Deaton's gauging pupillary response. Deaton drops his hand and looks at Danny, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he says, "nothing else is in there. Whatever he's missing is… simply gone."

"You son of a bitch, you _promised_ —" Dad snarls. 

Deaton holds his hand up, and Dad freezes, as if some invisible force is holding him in place. "I told you he had memories locked in his mind. I never promised they were _all_ of his memories." He lowers his hand. Dad subsides, but he looks _pissed_. 

"I'm sorry," Stiles says quietly. "I didn't know I was still missing things."

Dad's in his space instantly, hands on his shoulders, gaze intense. "Do _not_ apologize, okay? This isn't your fault, do you hear me? _None_ of it." He glances around as if daring anyone to argue. 

"Now, Stiles, if you could leave the room for a few minutes," Deaton says briskly.

"Absolutely not," Danny says before Stiles can. "No more talking about Stiles without him here."

Lydia puts a hand on Danny's arm. "I'd usually agree with you," she says, "but we can't talk about this in front of him."

"Holy shit we _are_ a cult, aren't we?" Stiles blurts. Every eye on the place turns to him, and he feels heat flood his face. "I mean, um…" He swallows. "Before, when my memories were—" He waves at his head. "Danny said Dad didn't like him because of some hobby I had that Dad wanted to get me away from. I figured either cult or mafia, and _that_ man—" He points at his father. "—wouldn't turn a blind eye to organized crime. So it's gotta be a cult. That must be what I can't remember."

Danny looks at Stiles helplessly and then kisses him hard and nudges him toward the door. "I hate this," he says, "but Lydia's right. We need a minute."

"Seriously?" Stiles demands. Danny nods, and he looks so crestfallen that Stiles can't be completely upset. He's still not happy. "Fine. Doc, lemme go play with puppies."

"Of course," Deaton says, smiling faintly. He takes a giant keyring out of his lab coat pocket and holds it out to Stiles with one separated out. "Here you go. No pigment this time."

Stiles snorts, unsurprised that Deaton's mind has gone to the same place his had. "Thanks, Doc." He throws a sarcastic salute to the room in general. "Have fun planning my reindoctrination."

Amber stands up. "I'll come with you," they offer. "They don't need me for this."

Kira looks disappointed, but it's Melissa who says, "No, please stay. I'm not feeling particularly trusting of Dr. Deaton right now; I would value your second opinion."

This earns her a hard glare from Scott, which she returns with interest. When Dad and Danny throw in their agreement with Melissa, Amber sits down. Kira squeezes Amber's hand and pops up. "I'll go."

This raises more protests, which Kira shrugs off. "You know where I stand. Derek has my proxy if anything comes to a vote." She grins. "Plus, puppies!"

Stiles is confused again—they vote on cult stuff? Is Amber a vet, and why would that matter?—but Kira is herding him out of the room. Maybe this isn't the time to plant his feet and demand answers.

Plus, _puppies_!

*

"Okay, before we get into anything else," Danny begins, "I need to say that this is a great outcome. Yes, we've lost knowledge and experience with Stiles not remembering the supernatural. No, we’ll never know why he didn’t reach out to us while he was gone—" Danny stops for a minute, because he _does_ feel hurt about that. He swallows and continues, "But he remembers _us_. That’s a win." He sees enthusiastic nods, a faint smile from Lydia, and a deep scowl from Noah. "Now: how much do we tell him, and how do we do it?"

"Well… _everything,_ right?" Scott says, frowning faintly. 

"Eventually," Melissa agrees, "but not _right now_. We're throwing him in the supernatural deep end. We can't even leave out the part where he burned out his magic and his memories of it because he accidentally put someone in a coma. Maybe let's put off the lowlights of your time at Beacon High."

Scott grimaces. "Good point."

"Now hold up a minute," Noah says, "we have to consider the other option."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Which is?"

" _Not_ telling him!" Noah flings his hands up in a deeply Stilesian gesture. 

Danny tries not to look like Noah’s grown a second head, because that's not the way to foster harmony with the in-laws. Fortunately, Lydia doesn't have the same restrictions. "Not an option," she says firmly.

Ah, but Noah's long been immune to Lydia's Lydianess. "For the first time since he was _sixteen,_ my boy has a shot at a normal life again. He could get out of this supernatural nightmare. Don't you tell me it's not an option."

"Since the moment I was bitten, Stiles has only tried to get further _into_ the supernatural, never out," Scott says, brow furrowed. "Even when I wanted nothing to do with being a werewolf, Stiles never wanted his normal life back."

" _I want it for him!_ " Noah shouts. A heavy, awkward silence falls over the room while the others try to course correct for the outburst.

"Yeah, sure, I get that," Scott says earnestly, "but you don't get to make that decision."

"I am his _father_!"

"And when we were sixteen, that carried a lot of weight," Danny says. "But, Noah, he's an adult. We don't get to take this away from him."

"Of course you would say that," Noah snaps.

"Hey!" Scott says instantly. Danny swallows his grin. One of the best unexpected benefits of his relationship is that, as long as he makes Stiles happy, Scott's loyalty to Stiles extends to him, too.

"How would it work?" Lydia asks. "Stiles' job, his friends, his grad program, his relationship—literally every aspect of his life touches on the supernatural. How do you expect to keep that from him long-term?"

"Not to mention," Derek says, chagrined, "this pack has enemies. _Stiles_ has enemies. Keeping him in the dark won't keep him safe."

"It will if I move him out of Beacon Hills," Noah says fiercely.

"Away from the pack?" Scott asks, distressed. "Away from _Danny_?"

Lydia rolls her eyes at him. "You _definitely_ don't have the authority to do _that_."

Melissa steps up to Noah and puts a hand on his arm. "Noah," she says gently, "do you remember when Scott was bitten, and the boys were keeping things from us all the time? Do you remember how that felt? You can't want that for Stiles now."

Noah closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. "I would if I thought it would keep him safe." He opens his eyes. "But he would figure it out and dive back in, wouldn't he?"

" _Yeah_ he would," Scott says, grinning, before he realizes that this isn't a happy moment and schools his features to solemnity. 

"Thank you, Noah," Danny says. Noah grumbles, but Danny doesn't think he'll protest again. "Okay, how are we doing this?" 

"I say we order take-out and go to your apartment," Lydia says.

"Al's!" Scott shouts, and then frowns when he remembers that neither Stiles nor Kira are there to high-five him.

Lydia looks ready to protest, but Danny shrugs. "It's Stiles' favorite breakfast place," he says, and Lydia concedes.

Deaton pushes away from the counter he's been leaning against. "On that note, I have patients to attend to. Mr. Delgado, if you need to take the rest of the day off, I understand."

"Oh, uh..." Scott rubs his neck. "You're not coming? Stiles will have questions." 

"Thank you," Deaton says, "but Mx. Ribeiro can answer any magic-related questions Mr. Stilinski might pose."

Amber pops to their feet. "Oh, uh, yeah, okay. I could do that. If you want." They look confused and daunted, but totally game. They'll fit in well with the pack.

Danny looks at Deaton. "I know you have your... balance bullshit. I don't know what you're allowed to do or not do. But the Rachlin pack is suffering. They could use help. A friendly phone call, at least. Unless your code of noninterference prevents you from being friendly."

Deaton does that thing where he doesn't move but is absolutely rolling his eyes. "Thank you for the information, Mr. Mahealani. I'll take it under advisement." He clicks his bag shut and walks out the door.

Amber stares after him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. "Okay, there was _no_ need for that," they say. Oh, yeah. They'll do _great_ here.

*

"Why were they awful?" Stiles asks.

Kira looks up, a Shiba Inu puppy dangling in mid-air in front of her. "What?"

It's tough to imagine _anything_ being awful, _ever_. He has most of his memories back. Kira and Amber have a date on Thursday. He and Kira are sitting on the adoption room floor, literally covered in puppies. Everything's _wonderful_.

But things are nagging at him, and he suspects he won't be completely happy until he sorts them out in his head. "The false memories I had. The life I invented for myself."

Kira sits up, rubbing the puppy's adorable, ticklish toe beans until it starts to squirm. "I have a theory, if you want to hear it."

"Is it bunnies?"

She squints at him. "I'm not sure we should've introduced you to _Buffy_." She settles more firmly against the wall and lets the puppy wriggle away. "So, the sp—" She bites her lip. "The _thing_ that happened to you, it had to make up fake memories so you wouldn't notice the gaps, right?"

Stiles nods, although this confuses him most of all. He isn't familiar with any type of amnesia where the brain fabricates new memories to replace the lost ones. 

"But part of you wanted you to know that it wasn't real. So you gave yourself crummy replacement memories so you'd be more open to the idea that something wasn't right. I mean, we had a hard enough time convincing you to drink Deaton's goop when your fake life was a downer. If it'd been good, who knows if you would've agreed."

The theory has so many holes. It's still better than anything Stiles has come up with. 

"Hey, Stiles." Kira reaches over and squeezes his hand. "We're glad you're back."

Stiles beams. "So am I."

*

"Danny!" Stiles cheers when he sees Danny. His smile is wide; his eyes are bright; and he's covered with puppies. For a split second, Danny sees what Noah means about letting Stiles keep his ordinary life. He may never regain his memories of the shit they've been through, but more shit is bound to come, and maybe the pack's being selfish by demanding that Stiles help them deal with it—especially with his magic gone.

But, no, Scott's right: the supernatural _is_ Stiles' life, and whatever it throws at them, he always finds a way to protect himself. The real selfishness would be keeping that from him to fit their definition of keeping him safe.

"Everyone's going to our place," Danny says. "Need help getting these guys in their kennels?"

Stiles and Kira pout, because they are actual adults. "How about everyone _else_ goes to our place, and we stay here and keep playing with puppies?" Stiles asks.

Danny laughs and picks up the Shar-Pei trundling over to sniff his shoe. "Derek's ordering Al's," he says.

Kira and Stiles are on their feet in seconds. "Is he getting me blintzes?" Kira demands.

"What kind of amateur do you take him for?" Danny scoffs.

Kira grins. Then Stiles pushes himself to his feet with surprising grace and stretches, his t-shirt and flannel riding up to reveal the soft, toned skin beneath.

Danny's mouth goes dry. "Change of plans," he says. "Everyone's giving us an hour and _then_ coming to our place."

Stiles' pupils dilate as he sucks in a sharp breath. Danny watches greedily, barely hearing Kira straight-up cackle at them.

"Get out of here," she says. "Go on, go. I'll take care of the puppies."

"Get Amber to help you," Danny says and has a split second to enjoy her blush before he's grabbing Stiles' hand and dragging him from the room. They have catching up to do.

*

The apartment hasn't been this full—of people or of food—since their housewarming. Stiles loves it—and feels overwhelmed by it.

Other than Deaton, everyone who was at the clinic has come over. They've also picked up Malia, Hayden, and Liam, who Stiles shrieked at and hugged fiercely, and Chris Argent, whose hand Stiles shook solemnly, because the dude _scares him_. Danny's even finagled the laptops so everyone on their giant video call has a screen: Cora in Brazil; Mason and Corey trapped on their Minnesota campus by a series of blizzards; Isaac, Jackson, and Ethan in their London flat. Stiles isn't sure who's banging who in that apartment, and he's _great_ with that uncertainty.

He keeps forgetting why everyone is here, why so many of them have taken the morning, or the whole day, off work or classes to come here. Then he remembers: oh, yeah; he was missing for four months, and they're celebrating that he's back.

His thoughts spiral: does he still have a job? How far behind is he in school? Who's been watering his plants? Where the fuck _was he_? Even his post-coital lassitude (and it was _fantastic_ coitus, so it's a _lot_ of lassitude) can’t keep the anxiety at bay for long.

Danny settles next to Stiles on the couch, and Stiles wastes no time burrowing into him. For a harrowing moment their take-out containers tilt wildly, but they manage to situate themselves without a single potato lost.

"Keneisha's been great," Danny says. "She’ll have to submit some form to reactivate you as an employee, but you won't have to reapply or reinterview. She says it's fine if you want to take a couple more days off."

"Today's Monday, right?"

Danny grins, dimples on full display. "That sounds right," he says.

Stiles nods. Maybe he'll stop by the library on Thursday or Friday. Ease himself into it.

"Charles has been less great," Danny admits with a grimace that Stiles matches. He's not surprised. The head of Stiles' MLIS program barely likes dealing with actual students. He can't imagine how he would've treated a family member. "We had to put you on a leave of absence for the semester, but Lucia in the registrar's office says it's no trouble to get you going again."

Stiles winces but nods. He couldn't have hoped for better there, he guesses. "How's my garden doing?" he asks.

Danny grins. "Great. Derek and Melissa have been taking care of it, and _all_ the vegetables got eaten, so no worries there." Makes sense. His friends are _great_ at eating.

Stiles pushes a small mound of scrambled eggs around his plate. Danny puts a hand over his, stilling his fork. "What's going on? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking..." He stares down at his plate for another minute. Then he looks at Danny and it bursts out of him. "Where the hell have I _been_ for the last four months? I _remember_ living in that abandoned building in Fairvale—which got torn down like two years ago! But they don't feel like real memories. They feel like dreams, or like movies I watched as a kid. It doesn't make sense, and I _hate_ it!" He buries a hand in his hair and stares at his plate, breathing hard and embarrassed by his outburst.

He glances up in time to catch Danny looking at Scott. Scott looks at Derek and Kira, who nod. Scott must do... something, Stiles isn't sure what, but half the conversation in the room shuts off, and after another couple seconds, the rest of the noise dies off, as well.

Danny puts down his fork and takes Stiles' free hand in his. "You're right," he says gently. "A lot of things that happened to you don't make sense. This seems like as good a time as any to tell you about it."

Stiles squints. "About what?"

"The memories you're missing."

Stiles' eyebrows fly up, and his pulse thunders in his ears. "You mean cult stuff?"

"We're not a cult," Derek growls.

"We're kind of a cult," Kira says cheerily as she swipes a blintz off Derek's plate and pops it in her mouth.

"The short answer to your question is that, for three of the months you were gone, you were in Galice, Oregon. Kira, Derek, and I met the people you stayed with. They're good people. For the most part, you were safe, and happy.

"We don't know where you were for the rest of the time. But where you were is less important than what you were doing there, or trying to do. You're missing that part."

Danny looks around the room. Stiles follows his gaze. Dad looks disapproving, but everyone else seems encouraging. Like they're here to support Danny and Stiles in whatever way they need. Stiles takes a breath and lets it out, willing his heart to calm. These are his friends. His family. They've got each other's backs.

Danny squeezes Stiles' hand and smiles. "Stiles," he says, "what do you know about werewolves?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Stop by [my tumblr](https://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/), if that's still a thing you do.


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